


the Monster of Magnus Manor

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Epilogue Chapter, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Martin Blackwood, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a man who wanted to save the world, and instead, nearly destroyed it.Before he was forced to commit this great evil, the man fled— but the failed ritual inflicted him with a terrible curse, and he concealed himself inside a dark, lonesome manor. As the years passed and the solitude ate him, he never ventured to the outside world, ever again.But that was alright. The man preferred it this way. For there remained not one person, living or dead, who was better for having known Jonathan Sims.-“Aren’t you lonely, Mister Blackwood?”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 204
Kudos: 420
Collections: RaeLynn's Epic Rec List





	1. The Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the stunning [theshoutingslytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshoutingslytherin/pseuds/theshoutingslytherin) (tumblr [@here!](https://definitelynotshouting.tumblr.com/)), who sliced my drafts to ribbons and used those ribbons to make a bow. _Our_ fic, comrade.

_“Blackwood.”_

Martin lurched upright, unfinished letter stuck to his sweaty face. Mister Griffiths was standing in the doorway, scowl deepening as Martin scrambled out of the desk chair and onto his feet.

“If you’re finished with your _nap,”_ Griffiths snapped, “make your way down to the kitchens at once. Lord Barclay’s guests will be arriving soon.”

“Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.”

With a withering look, Griffiths turned on his heel out of the servants’ quarters, and some of the tension drained out of Martin’s shoulders. At least he’d only been glared at this time.

Martin sunk back into his chair, eyelids threatening to slip shut again. Hard wicker had no right being as comfortable as it was. In all fairness, though, the cold stone floor of the refrigerator would be just as soft right now. Peeling the letter off his cheek, he flipped it over and groaned. Oh, _perfect._ He’d gone and _completely_ smudged the thing. Half his face was probably covered in a splotch of ink.

At least he’d snuck in a few winks before needing to get ready. _Something_ was always better than nothing– even if the thick, pulsing needle driving itself through his temples disagreed. Hopefully, it would be enough to get him through today’s shift.

 _Especially_ today’s shift.

He tucked the letter underneath his pillow; he’d have to rewrite it later, if he wanted to send it out tomorrow morning. 

A new uniform was waiting for him in the communal wardrobe, one that Lord Barclay had ordered just for the occasion. His dormmates must have already grabbed theirs– aside from his, the wardrobe was empty. Bit annoying that they hadn’t even taken the time to give him a quick tap on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Martin, rise and shine, big day today, don’t want to be late!’ Perhaps they’d figured it was best for him to sleep as much as possible. This wasn’t the day to get sloppy, after all.

Or maybe they hadn’t considered him at all.

He hoped it was the first one.

Uniform slung over his arm, Martin scurried to the servants’ washroom. He was making good time; with any luck, Griffiths’ scowl would never graduate higher than _mildly disappointed._ On the scale of the head butler’s ranking displeasure, that wasn’t the worst place to be.

In his haste, however, he bumped into the shoulder of another servant. Martin turned, an apology already on his lips, then paused.

“Charles?”

Charles spun around, and his eyes brightened.

“Look who decided to make their way out of bed,” he said, giving Martin’s shoulder a playful jostle. “You know Jefferies is going to have your hide if he sees you like that, yeah?”

 _“Please_ don’t tell him. He’ll kill me this time, he really will.” His eyes flitted down Charles' figure, brows shooting up. “You … you’re wearing the new uniform.”

“I am, indeed. How do I look?” Charles smoothed down the front of his chest. “Fetching, right?”

“I-I, uh, you …”

It was hard to get the words out. _Anyone_ would look good in a uniform like that; that was why Lord Barclay had bought the bloody things. But the dark red jacket, white gloves, and navy tie complemented Charles’ ginger hair and smile in a way that tangled up Martin’s tongue something fierce.

His face had warmed, and he hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“You look wonderful,” he said. Then, face growing even hotter, “I mean, um,” he coughed, “it looks really good.”

Charles’ grin widened, and Martin had to stop himself from slapping his own face. _Get it together._ There was something more pressing here.

“But you’re going to start serving? _Today?_ You’ve barely even finished your apprenticeship.”

Charles shrugged. “Griffiths said he needs all hands on deck. I’ll be _fine._ You’re such a worrywart, you know that?”

Of _course_ Martin was worried. Charles had only been working in the castle for a few months, and Griffiths was going to have him start _now?_ On the night of Lord Barclay’s autumn soirée? Martin was about to remind him of that, when a wave of weakness crested over him, dizziness clouding his vision. He would have tipped over if Charles hadn’t grabbed his shoulder.

“Whoa, hey, are you okay? You’re looking a little …”

If Martin’s face was hot before, it was nothing compared to now. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Again?” 

“I’ll be fine once I’ve had a wash up.”

Charles’ eyes trained on him so long that Martin was sure he’d well and truly pass out. After a moment, Charles gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and withdrew.

“You’d best. Well, I need to be off. Ol’ Griffs is on the warpath. Good luck tonight, yeah?” He winked. “Drinks on me at the pub later.”

“Y-yeah. See you.”

Martin watched him until Charles left the room, eyes lingering on the corner where he’d disappeared until another dizzy spell swept him.

 _Focus_. Charles hadn’t been kidding about what Jefferies would do if he knew Martin still hadn’t changed yet.

The reminder had Martin rushing through his wash. Throwing the new uniform on was a struggle; all those foreign buttons and straps kept tangling together, and he got stuck twice before finally securing the last tie. 

Martin paused in front of the mirror to check himself over. It was ... nice enough, he supposed. The most expensive thing he’d ever worn, that was certain. Despite the custom fit, though, the material still hugged too tight around his chest, and scratched at the sensitive skin on his neck.

Luckily, he’d only have to wear it tonight.

With one last glance, Martin smoothed down his hair and hurried out into the main hallway.

 _Chaos._ The corridors were packed wall to wall with other servants, confused about where they should go, what they should be doing. The crowd smothered him; _how_ had he managed to sleep through this? Now, in the thick of things, his ears were beginning to ring.

“Martin!”

Martin paused, scanning the sea of twisting faces. One of the laundry girls – Angelica – was elbowing her way through the swarm with dogged determination, drawing sharp cries of pain from her victims.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said as she came into earshot. “I just wanted to say thanks for setting up the guest bedrooms last night for me. I would’ve been up ‘til dawn if I’d had to do it.”

Martin, who had finished outfitting the last of the guest quarters just as the sun was rising, merely smiled. “I’m glad I could help. Wasn't really fair to you, getting assigned something you’re not used to.”

Angie nodded in agreement, sage-like. “I swear, Griffiths is out to get me, but I belong in the laundry room, you know?” Then she reached into the pocket of her apron, producing a bundle of cloth. She held it out to him. “We had apple slices for breakfast this morning,” she explained. “I saved you mine. You know, as a thank you.”

Woken by the mention of food, his stomach twisted itself into aching knots. He hadn’t even spared a thought for breakfast– based on the sun’s height, the servants’ meal hour had ended long ago. 

Eyes prickling, he accepted the bundle. “Thanks, Angie. I– I _really_ needed this.”

Angie beamed.

From somewhere within the clamour, an authoritative voice rose up. _“Come on then, to your stations!”_

The tide of the crowd was pushing them apart before the last word had faded. “Good luck, tonight!” Angie called as she turned to follow some of the others into the laundry room. Martin waved back to her, and once she had disappeared from view, unwrapped the cloth and bit into one of the apple slices.

Sweet and refreshing. Martin let his eyes slide shut, savouring the crispness. Thank _God_ for Angie. There was no telling when his next meal would be; Griffiths had informed everyone last night that they wouldn't have time for their regular lunch. 

He finished the last slice just as he reached the kitchens. The bedlam was even worse, here; servers were shouting orders to the kitchen staff, the kitchen staff were dancing around the servers, and everyone inched a hair's breadth away from colliding into each other. It was only due to sheer experience that they all managed to avoid absolute disaster. And in the centre of it all stood Jefferies, shouting directions and helpful threats in equal measure.

“If a single one of you so much as _serves_ a smudged glass,” he roared, “the Lord’ll have all our heads!”

The ringing in Martin’s ears had gone from loud to stringent. Hip braced against a countertop, he dragged a hand across his face. It never did get any easier, even with his meagre two years of experience.

_Focus._

Plate the food, carry it to the dining hall, serve. He’d done it a thousand times before. This was the exact same thing.

He just needed to _stay focused._

“Here, Blackwood.” One of the servers pressed a tray of champagne flutes into his hands. "Take these out–" he glanced back at Jefferies, a brief flash of humour flickering on his face "– and _don’t_ smudge them."

A huffed chuckle. “‘Course.”

He took one last bolstering breath, and began shouldering his way back out into the corridors.

Let’s get this over with, then. The frantic noises from the kitchen fell away in increments– until, at last, he reached the ballroom.

Lord Barclay had spared no expense. What had once been a room that only served as extra dusting for the staff was now draped with the elaborate banners of the Barclay family crest, looming over a teeming crowd of his Lord’s esteemed guests. At the opposite end of the room, an orchestra was playing … _sophisticated_ music, something the nobles could chatter over without any real effort. Framed by grand bay windows, rare flowers swayed back and forth on the gentle breeze. 

No one had figured out what had gripped the Lord into throwing such an elaborate event, but, in the end, it wasn’t their place to know. Only to serve his Lordship. The calluses on Martin’s hands still ached with the memory of polishing marble floors, and the tables were lined with the efforts of Jefferies and his cooks.

It had been an exhausting couple of months for them all.

The guests were quite taken with the whole thing, though. Even _they_ had put in extra effort for this party, if their wardrobes were anything to go by. Martin fought the urge to stare, entranced by their ornate, sparkling costumes. He couldn’t imagine wearing a piece like that all day, but perhaps comfort wasn’t the point.

As he drifted through the ballroom, he kept one eye out for– yes, there he was. Charles, holding his own tray of champagne, standing off near the windows. Spine ramrod straight, quick to respond whenever a noble flagged him down. He seemed to have a handle on things.

Martin’s shoulders lost some of their tension, a soft smile quirking to his lips. Perhaps Charles had been right. Maybe Martin worried too much after all.

One of the nobles reached for Charles’ tray, plucking a glass up with gloved, delicate fingers. Charles lifted his head at her approach, a smile spreading across his face. 

Martin paused.

Then Charles' lips began moving in amicable conversation, and total panic took hold of him.

It was impossible to discern the noblewoman’s reaction from this angle, but it didn’t matter in the end. As a server in Lord Barclay’s estate, _you_ _did not, under any circumstances, chat with the guests._

Frantic, Martin scoured the room until he caught a glimpse of Lord Barclay at the far end of the hall; drink in one hand, smoothing his curling moustache with the other. He was regaling a group of smiling nobles with wide, sweeping gestures. Most importantly, though, his back was to Charles.

Martin’s eyes snapped back, but the noblewoman had moved on, and Charles was continuing his circuit in the opposite direction. Martin _needed_ to get to him, remind him of the _rules._

He took a step forward–

The colours of the room blurred. Martin caught himself before his champagne tray could do more than wobble, pulse throbbing in his ears.

“Blackwood?”

One of the other servers tapped his shoulder. Martin shot him a weak glance.

“Get to the kitchens. Griffiths is about to call for dinner.”

Griffiths was indeed weaving through the crowd, making a line for the grand double doors leading into the dining hall. When Martin looked back to the windows, Charles was gone.

“Right,” he said, letting the server pull him away. “Okay.”

He’d find Charles later.

Things had quieted down in the kitchens, but the atmosphere was still thick and heavy. No one was smiling, here. No one could afford to.

Martin’s stomach panged with hunger; the rich scent of bacon-wrapped prunes had permeated the room, and Angie’s apple slices were but a distant memory now. He took the first tray of appetisers he was handed, trying not to sway on aching feet.

At the entrance to the dining hall, though, he slowed.

Charles.

And Griffiths.

Griffiths’ back was to Martin, but Martin had been on the receiving end of enough outstanding dressing downs to recognise the severe line of his shoulders and tight, punctuated hand motions. Charles’ whitening face and wringing hands were only further confirmation.

“Watch it!”

Martin jolted, missing a collision with someone’s tray by inches.

The other server glared at him, fierce. “What’s the matter with you?”

 _“Sorry_ , sorry.”

Shaking her head, she hurried back into the kitchen.

With one last, lingering look at Charles, Martin continued into the dining hall.

The appetisers he brought were received with enthusiasm, as were the salads that came after. So far, the evening was going off without a hitch, and the further the night went on without incident, the more the other servers relaxed.

But Martin knew he was starting to slip.

It was subtle at first. His fingers shook when he gripped the plates. His steps grew loose-limbed and uncertain. His vision fogged intermittently; he kept reaching for the wrong dishes, and, to his creeping horror, the other servers were beginning to side-eye him. 

Under normal circumstances, he could have kept himself under control, but the image of Charles’ pale expression had etched itself behind his heavy eyelids. By the time they reached the main entrees, Martin had almost crashed into the kitchen staff twice, and barely avoided tripping over his own feet while holding a full tray of food.

Jefferies grabbed him by the sleeve on his way out with a platter of roasted mutton. 

“And where do you think you’re going with that?”

“Th-the dining hall?”

“You’re missing _half_ your plates!”

Martin took a second look at his tray and blanched. He _was._ Before he could open his mouth, Jeffries pulled the tray from his slack hands, handing it back to one of the kitchen staff. 

Face burning, Martin stood straight, hands clenched. “S-sorry, sir.”

“Tonight’s not a night to be distracted, lad.”

Martin nodded, eyes glued to the floor.

A sigh. With a hard clap to his shoulder, Jefferies handed him a water pitcher.

“Just make sure the guests are topped up.”

It was an act of mercy, and he appreciated it. But as the other staffers shifted and muttered around them, humiliation coiled deep within his belly.

“Of course, sir,” he rasped, taking the water pitcher.

“Blackwood.”

When Martin looked up, Jefferies' expression was uncharacteristically gentle.

“Hold fast.”

Bowing his head, Martin continued out the door.

The dining hall’s atmosphere was hushed compared to the kitchens, filled with only the clatter of cutlery against fine china while nobles murmured amongst themselves. While it provided a balm to Martin’s pounding head, it was far more unsettling than the comfortable warmth of the kitchen.

Taking steady breaths through his nose, Martin began rounding the table, topping up water glasses as he went. Embarrassing as it was, Jefferies had been right to give him an easier task; even the pitcher, light as it was, trembled in his grip. It was all he could do to keep his eyes from sliding shut.

“I think you’ll find that my wine is already plenty diluted, thank you.”

Martin blinked.

The guest sitting in front of him had blocked Martin’s pitcher with one hand over his glass. His _wine glass._

Which Martin had nearly filled with _water._

Choking on a gasp, he pulled back, nearly dropping his pitcher in the process.

“I-I’m so– please, I–”

The noble turned to look at him over his shoulder, and Martin’s mouth snapped shut.

By all appearances, the man was unassuming, almost insultingly modest compared to the elaborate costumes of Lord Barclay’s other guests. Younger than most of the noblemen, too, perhaps a few years older than Martin himself, with pale, unblemished skin – the mark of an aristocrat who’d never worked a day in the sun – and cool, green eyes that pinned Martin to the spot.

Those _eyes_ …

Martin didn’t _know_ this man, did he? He couldn’t recall seeing him when he’d been serving in the ballroom. But as the man continued staring up at him, lips twisting in a thin smile, Martin had the bone-chilling thought that maybe _he_ knew _Martin._

_“Blackwood.”_

Martin snapped out of his trance as Griffiths materialised at his elbow.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Griffiths said to the nobleman, voice calm despite the stormy eyes locked on Martin.

At the head of the table, Lord Barclay was also staring at him. His jovial smile had slipped into something far more chilling.

Martin swallowed. But Barclay only waved them off with a lazy swat of his hand, and before Martin could even bow his head, Griffiths was corralling him back out of the dining hall.

“Did you hear what that man said?”

Martin chanced a glance over his shoulder. A noblewoman was whispering into the ear of another, who _tsked_ indignantly.

“The _audacity,_ insulting the drink of the man hosting us. I don’t know where m’Lord finds types like these. No respect at all.”

Griffiths gave him a good, hard shove, and Martin's eyes returned to his feet, cheeks flush with shame.

To his sinking dread, Griffiths didn’t leave him after they’d exited the hall. Instead, he was escorted all the way back to the kitchens.

“Mister Jefferies!” Griffiths boomed as they entered. Everyone stopped, dozens of wide eyes pinning Martin to the floor. Jefferies appeared in front of them, eyes landing first on Griffiths, then Martin.

“I would advise,” said Griffiths, “that you keep your staff in _order.”_

Lips pressed in a tight line, Jefferies nodded. Griffiths answered with a stiff jerk of his head, then left. With a quick gesture, Jefferies waved the staff back to work. Then he rounded on Martin.

“What the _devil_ has gotten into you tonight?”

“I’m … I’m sor–”

“Any other night, I’d send you back to your quarters, you know that? _Without supper.”_

Martin half expected him to do it anyway– it might have been best for them all. But Jefferies pointed to the prep table, exasperation written in every line of his body.

“Just help the cooks, will you?”

Martin blew out a long breath, shoulders sagging.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t be thanking me. This is your punishment.” But the corner of Jefferies' mouth twitched as he patted Martin on the shoulder. “Get to it. This wretched night’s almost at an end.”

With a nod, Martin shuffled over to the opposite end of the kitchen, sliding off his uniform jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Wouldn’t want to get it dirty now, not when they were so close to ending the night without incident. At least in here, he was far away from the eyes of Lord Barclay … and _that man._

He helped chop and prepare the meals, falling into a familiar, methodical rhythm, until, at last, all that remained was dessert. Martin let himself slump against the counter in relief. His sleeves were crusted with grime, but nobody in _here_ cared. 

It was only as the servers brought in the last plates from the dinner course that Charles reappeared. Martin was opening his mouth to call him over when Charles all but dumped his tray on the counter, sending a mountain of dishes crashing to the floor.

 _“Shit,”_ Charles hissed, reaching down to pick up the fallen plates. 

Martin crouched down to help. “Are you okay?”

He flinched as Charles whirled on him.

“What? I’m fine. Why would– why would anything be wrong?” Charles braced his arms against the counter, turning to the half empty wine glasses. “D’you think I could go ahead and finish these off? Probably? They didn’t even want the rest of it, right?”

“I, uh–”

“Right, right, terrible idea.” Charles chuckled breathlessly. “Stupid. I must look so _stupid_ right now.”

“I don’t think you look stupid.”

“No one else is having a problem! God, you should have heard the way Griffs chewed me out. I didn’t know you couldn’t talk to the guests _at all._ I was just … _making conversation.”_ Charles chewed at his nails, spluttering when he bit into his gloves. After a long moment, he lowered his head into his hands. His voice was hollow. “I’m going to get sacked, aren’t I?”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Martin tried. “It’s your first night serving, and it’s almost over. There’s only dessert left, yeah?”

“Oh, Christ, there’s _more?”_

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, and for a wild moment Martin thought he was going to sink to the floor. Instead, he dug the heels of his palms deeper into his eyes.

“I need this job,” he whispered. “I need it _so_ badly.”

There was no telling how Barclay would react if he saw Charles like this. Charles could be punished– Martin _knew_ that. If he just sat back and did nothing, then ...

He took a deep breath.

“I’ll take out the desserts, okay?”

Charles’ head snapped up. “You’d really do that?”

“Of course,” Martin said, pulling his jacket off the coat rack. So long as he folded his sleeves, no one else would notice any stains. “Just help everyone else with the last of it?”

Charles stared at him for a long moment, then wrapped his arms around Martin, pulling him into a crushing hug.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you _so_ much.”

Martin's heart lurched; pressed together this close, with Charles' soft hair brushing his cheek, he could catch the faintest hint of cedarwood cologne. Without meaning to, his eyes slid shut, and he leaned into Charles' broad chest.

Then, just as quickly, Charles pulled away, and Martin nearly fell forward.

“I owe you one for this, yeah?” Charles said, giving Martin’s shoulder a powerful slap.

“R-right.” Martin grabbed the last tray of raspberry tarts, face hot. Some of the staffers eyed him, wary, but Jefferies would understand, right? He could handle it. If it meant making sure Charles avoided punishment, then he could handle it.

Martin elected to ignore how the hallway swayed back and forth as he walked. He scrubbed his eyes with his free hand, but– no, that hadn’t helped at all. The hallway continued it's sickening pitch from side to side; that was fine. He could still put one foot in front of the other, so he was _fine._

Inside the dining hall, the chatter of Lord Barclay’s guests had subsided to a low buzz, their faces warm and sleepy. “What a _lovely_ party,” said one, so low in her seat she was on the verge of slipping off. “Barclay’s really outdone himself this time.”

“You think he’ll organise something again for spring?” asked the man across from her.

“I certainly hope so. I must insist that my husband accompany me next time.”

Martin’s lips pressed together. He didn’t even want to _think_ about doing something like this again. But if the will of his Lord commanded …

One by one, he passed out the desserts. Good. He was doing good. Just needed to focus on one task at a time; then he could get out of here, clean up, and _sleep._

Sweat had broken out on the back of his neck. Was his uniform hugging tighter than before? It was hard to take a full breath. Just a little bit longer, and he could take this abhorrent thing off.

“–didn’t the servers look absolutely darling in their little outfits?”

“Wonder who the Lord commissioned–”

“–think I might try–”

Did no one else else hear that ringing? Griffiths must have struck the bell again. Why was no one getting up?

That… that wasn’t right…

“–something wrong with–”

“–are you–?”

He reached up to grab another plate, but his hand wouldn’t move.

“Sir?”

When had he closed his eyes?

“Oh my G–”

_“Don’t–”_

A splash of cold water struck his face, and Martin’s eyes snapped back open.

What had happened? Where was he?

He was… he was lying on the ground. Why was he on the _ground?_ Had he made it back to the kitchens? Had he … fallen asleep before clean-up? No, that was ridiculous. Jefferies wouldn’t let him just _lie_ on the _floor._

Groaning, Martin tried to push himself up, limbs sluggish and shaky. A fierce ache had bloomed in his shoulder, as if someone had punched him, and the ringing in his ears had faded to a distant echo, replaced by the low, throbbing beat of his pulse.

Someone cleared their throat.

Martin looked up.

Lord Barclay was standing over him. In one of his outstretched hands was an empty water glass.

Icy horror stabbed his chest. Martin scrambled upright, but his foot slipped out from under him, and he fell sharply on one knee. By his leg was the dessert tray; the raspberry tarts, so painstakingly made by Jefferies’ staff, had splattered all over the polished marble floors.

Barclay’s cold eyes were burning.

“I–” Martin breathed. “I’m sor–”

A hand jerked him up by the scruff of his uniform. Martin gasped, strangled, before it tossed him over to another, panic-stricken server.

 _“Get him out of here,”_ Griffiths snarled, and then turned to Barclay’s stony countenance. “My Lord, if you will permit me, I ask that you–”

All eyes were on him as he was half-dragged out of the hall. Some were startled. A few concerned.

Most were glaring.

They burst into the kitchens. Most of the staff had relaxed, chattering amongst themselves, but a frigid silence fell over the room at Martin and his handler’s sudden reappearance.

“What happened?” someone asked.

“Blackwood fainted,” said the server accompanying Martin. _“While_ he was carrying half the desserts!”

Someone gasped, and several faces lost their colour. Martin sunk into the nearest chair, trying very hard not to throw up as muttering swelled around him.

“What’s going to happen to us?”

“Barclay’s going to have us all sacked!”

“He can’t get rid of _all_ of us, can he?”

“Done it before. Happened to a second cousin of mine. Some halfwit served a half cooked fish and everyone had their bags packed by the end of the night. In _winter.”_

The fear in the room mounted higher and higher, until Martin was sure he’d snap under the weight of it. Desperate, he cast his gaze around– but he couldn’t find Charles within the sea of faces. The pressure grew heavier, until he thought he’d collapse again.

Just as fast as he’d left, Griffiths reappeared, door swinging shut behind him. His expression was unreadable. 

A hush settled over the sea of servants, everyone thrumming with nervous anticipation.

“Mister Jefferies,” Griffiths began. “If you would please see that another tray of raspberry tarts are prepared. Some of our guests have yet to receive one.”

Jefferies nodded, the line of his jaw severe, and one of the servers blurted, “What’s going to happen to all of us?”

There was a chorus of muted echoes, which died as Griffiths cleared his throat.

“As the majority of you have performed your duties to the best of your ability,” he said, “our Lord is willing to overlook this misstep. The sole offending party will be responsible for cleaning the kitchens tonight. That is all.”

The babble of relief that swept through the room nearly drowned out what the head butler had said, but a fragment of something sharp sunk down Martin’s throat.

Jefferies had heard, too. “Mister Griffiths,” he started, brows furrowing, “you can’t put that all on one man–”

“If you would like to take your concerns up with his Lordship,” Griffiths said in clipped, steely tones, “then you may.”

Sheepish, Jefferies backed down.

“For those who have served admirably tonight,” continued Griffiths, “once the Lord’s table has been cleared, you may proceed to the cafeteria for your dinner.”

In fits and starts, the staff got back to work. A new tray of raspberry tarts went out. The dishes from the Lord’s table were retrieved and added to the pile by the sink. Through it all, the staff’s expressions held one shared emotion: relief.

No one said anything to Martin. Nobody acknowledged him at all. And soon enough, everyone was gone, and the kitchens were empty. Martin was alone.

That was it. The night was over.

Arms braced against knees, Martin stared down at his hands. They were still shaking; squeezing his fingers didn’t help much. His eyes still stung, throat still too tight.

A rush of air signalled the door opening again. Martin looked up– it was Jefferies, holding out a bowl.

“Figured you were wanting to eat alone,” he said.

Martin wasn’t even sure he was _allowed_ to eat, but he accepted the bowl anyway. Vegetables and broth. Although Martin’s stomach turned, he appreciated the heat that sunk into his tired fingers. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for that.”

Martin glanced back up, but Jefferies was staring at the floor, lips twisted. With a leaden sigh, the head chef put a hand on his shoulder.

“Just … worry about the dishes, alright? Morning crew and I’ll mop down the counters and floor.”

That, of all things, was what made it start sinking in. He’d wanted to go to bed, but now he’d have to stay in the kitchen, by himself, until everything had been cleaned. And that would take … God, _hours._ _Hours_ until Martin could just _sleep_. He’d just wanted some _sleep–_

His hands tightened around the bowl, throat catching. “Won’t Barclay get mad at you?”

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to beg for his gracious forgiveness, now won’t I?”

When Martin’s vision blurred this time, it wasn’t out of exhaustion. “Thank you,” he whispered, struggling to keep his voice level.

Jefferies’ hand moved to squeeze the back of his neck, just this side of painful, before letting go. He turned back to the entrance, and the kitchen was empty once more.

Although it wouldn’t do him any favours in the long run, Martin chewed through his meal slowly, ignoring the way his stomach churned with each bite. He ended up tossing most of it anyway, after a swell of nausea threatened to bring up what he’d already eaten. What a waste.

Things weren’t _all_ bad, though, right? At least he didn’t have to worry about mopping now– that was half his workload right there. Like Jefferies had said: he just needed to worry about the dishes.

But his brief flicker of optimism faded as he approached the sink. The dishes were stacked to eye level, so precarious that they’d overflowed to the other workstations scattered around the kitchen, like moss creeping up the side of a cracked, decrepit wall.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself. The sooner he got started, the sooner he’d finish. Dumping the pots into a sink full of hot, soapy water, Martin slid off his uniform jacket and reached for his first fork.

Sometime later, as he was scrubbing out a stubborn sauce stain on a plate, the door opened again. It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but at least he’d managed to put a little dent in the mountain of dishes.

“Martin?”

It was Charles, full of remorse as he held out an armload of new dishes. “Sorry,” he said. “From the cafeteria.”

Martin’s heart sank. “S’fine.”

He continued scrubbing as Charles added to the pile. Then, Charles, wringing his hands, turned to him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I was just …” He stopped, taking in a high pitched breath. “I’m so, _so_ sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t been such a cock up …”

“It’s not your fault,” Martin said, chest aching. “I’m the one who messed up.”

“It was an accident! It’s not like you _meant_ to fall. If that bloody, pompous prick of a lord would just take that stick out his arse …”

Martin chuckled despite himself. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“So what! He shouldn’t get to treat us like garbage all the time. It’s not _fair.”_ With a mighty sigh, Charles stepped forward and slapped Martin’s back. “Well, I’m a man of my word. Anything you need and I’m your guy. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” said Martin, softly. Then, flush creeping up his neck, he cleared his throat. “Actually, there is … if you’d like, we could … go do something in town, sometime. On our next day off?” He swallowed, toying with the edge of the plate. “… Together?”

_“Done.”_

Martin’s stomach swooped low and dizzying, and he tried to bite back a dumb, wide smile. There was no need to be so _excited,_ of course. Obviously, they would be going as _friends–_

Charles sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Wait, on our _next_ day off?”

Martin paused. Charles was scrubbing the back of his neck. 

“Well, y’see, I was actually hoping to ask Angie if she wanted to go to the lake together. You know, Angie? Down in laundry? Nice hair? Gorgeous smile?”

“… you like Angie?”

“Well, you know, I’m _fond,_ as they say.” He winked. “We actually, eh, _met up_ with each other last night, if you know what I mean. Get this–” He elbowed Martin’s side. “She got one of the other server boys to make all the guest beds for her last night, just so she could see me! Sneaky little fox, isn’t she?”

Numbness crept through Martin’s fingers, threatening to release his grip on the plate. He stared down hard, mind buzzing with static. Under the hot water, the skin of his hands had already begun splitting open. And he’d only just gotten started …

Charles gave his shoulder another slap.

“If Angie’s too busy, then you and I can do something, yeah? And drinks are still on me, don’t think I’ve forgotten. All of us are planning a pub run tomorrow night.” He straightened up, then hesitated. “Well ... I’ll stop distracting you. I– I wish I could help but, well … you know. Barclay …”

Yes. Martin did know.

With one last pat, Charles hurried out of the kitchens. Likely on his way to bed, to get some sleep for tomorrow’s shift.

The room settled back into silence.

It could’ve been hours that Martin stared at the dirty plate in his hands. Years. It was hard to say.

But eventually, he resumed washing the plate in slow, methodical circles. His eyes had started stinging, but he didn’t bother reaching up to scrub them.

There was still a lot of work to do.

When Martin crouched to put away the last iron pan, the stars were still shining. By his own judgement, he had at least an hour before sunrise. Which meant there was still time. 

He let out a measured sigh of relief, eyes slipping shut. He could still get some sleep. All he had to do now was walk back to his rooms. 

With a great heave, he pushed himself up, rocking unsteadily on the balls of his feet. One hand gripped the counter for balance; it shifted to the wall as he tugged his uniform jacket off the coat rack, extinguished the lantern light, and staggered out of the kitchens.

Standing had been difficult enough, but the stairs proved the greater challenge. Martin dug his nails into the soft skin of his palms every time he stumbled, but more than once, he found himself leaning against the cold, stone wall of the stairwell, blinking awake.

When his hand closed around the handle of his dormitory, he let his eyes close in muted relief. Thank _God._

“Blackwood.”

Martin startled, pulse jumping in his throat. Griffiths had materialised out of the darkness like a ghost where the shadows of the hallway blurred together. With the Lord’s grand party over, the deep furrow in Griffiths’ brow had relaxed, giving the appearance of a man almost ten years younger– although the corners of his mouth were still tight. He held out an envelope.

“Here you are,” he said. “Your monthly earnings.”

 _Oh._ Martin had completely forgotten he would receive that today. 

He took the envelope. That should have been the end of it, but Griffiths just stood there, staring him down with the most uncomfortable expression Martin had ever seen on him.

“The Lord wanted to have you sacked, you know,” said Griffiths, breaking the silence. “I convinced him that you’d already suffered a suitable enough punishment.”

 _Sacked._

“Thank you, sir,” Martin said, in a strangled, barely-there whisper. 

Griffiths’s frown grew even more severe. “Jefferies informed me he ordered you to stay in the kitchens. Why did you disobey him?”

“I wasn’t– it wasn’t like that. It was– Charles was so, _so_ nervous tonight and I thought– I thought I could help, since I’ve been working here longer, and I could–"

Griffiths let out a long sigh through his nose, eyes closed and face sagging in a way that almost bordered remorseful.

“I regret my part in all of this. I had thought that Lawrence was prepared for the challenges of this evening, but I was wrong. That was my mistake. But Blackwood–”

He placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder. 

“Your friend can take care of himself. I would advise, for your own sake, that you start doing the same."

And Griffiths left him there in the empty corridor, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until they disappeared entirely. 

Martin took one breath, then another, and opened the door to the servants’ dormitory.

Everyone else was still fast asleep. Tossing the uniform’s jacket at the end of his bed, he sat down, kicking off his shoes. He didn’t bother changing out of his dress shirt. It was sloppy, sure, but for once he was too tired to care if the others judged him for it.

He moved to lay down, already half-asleep, when his hand crinkled something underneath his pillow. He froze, stomach sinking.

The letter to Mum. The one he needed to deliver this morning, before his shift started. _Obviously–_ he always waited to send his letters today, because then he could send back his earnings as soon as he got them. How could he have forgotten?

Straightening, Martin pulled the letter out and unfolded it. The smudges from earlier were still there, rendering half of it unintelligible.

A pang of snarled frustration knotted in Martin’s chest. Surely, _surely_ it wouldn’t be the end of the world if his letter was late, just by one day? Mum could wait one more day for the money, right? If it meant he could get an hour or two of sleep ...

A terrible, desperate noise tangled up the back of his throat, and he pressed a hand over his mouth to muffle it. When he swiped at his eyes, the back of his hand came away wet.

God. 

He was a _dreadful_ son, wasn’t he?

Outside, the sky was beginning to brighten, thousands of stars fading into a gentle, crystal blue. There wasn’t any time. He still needed to rewrite the letter before going down to the post office.

Pushing himself back up on wobbling legs, Martin made for the desk chair, wincing as its legs scraped across the floor. He sat down, smoothing out the ruined letter. Strike the match, light the half-melted candle– he grabbed a clean sheet of paper, picked up a fountain pen, and dipped the tip in the inkwell.

_Hello Mum,_

_I hope the cooler weather has been treating you well. I’ve been enjoying it; the city is much more tolerable without the summer heat. I’m thankful his Lordship decided to hold this soirée in autumn. It’s been a struggle getting everything prepared; at least we’ve had a nice breeze all the while._

_A new gardening centre opened in the town square! I got to visit it not too long ago; his Lordship had ordered a commission for his new rooms. Do you remember when I tried to start that tiny garden in our backyard? I had a whole bag of lily seeds. Poor things never stood a chance. You tried to warn me, but, well, you know how I am._

_The rest of the staff’s excited for the holidays. I still don’t know if I’ll be allowed to come home since I’ve only been working here a few years, but you’ll tell me if you’d like me to visit? I know I keep asking, but that’s so I can ask Mister Griffiths if it’s okay. The castle is lovely, but I really miss home, sometimes._

As he reached the last paragraph, he stopped.

_Charles is doing well. You remember him from my last letter? He’s really starting to get the hang of things, and it’s been nice having a friend here. I might ask him if he’d like to go do something in town together; I haven’t ever had someone to do that sort of thing with before. Maybe we’ll visit the lake? I hear it’s supposed to be rather beautiful!_

Martin’s throat clenched shut. He could have _drowned_ in his own humiliation. 

He decided that paragraph was better off left out.

_With all of my love,_

_Martin_

“Could you _knock it off_ with the writing?”

One of his dormmates was glaring at him from under the blanket.

“S-sorry,” Martin whispered.

He was done anyway.

This time, he managed to stay awake as he waited for the ink to dry, then tucked the letter and all but a handful of his earnings into a postal envelope. All he needed to do now was walk into town and drop off the letter. If he was lucky, maybe he’d make it back before the sun had fully risen.

He slipped on his cloak and entered the darkened city. The streets were deserted at this hour, everyone still tucked away in their beds. Usually, Martin enjoyed this little walk. It was peaceful and quiet, and he loved watching the creeping fingers of dawn strike a match against the sky.

Today, though, he couldn’t summon the energy to appreciate it.

The postmaster was behind the counter when Martin arrived, scribbling down in his log. Martin cleared his throat to catch the old man’s attention. “Good morning. Is … is there anything in for Blackwood?”

Closing his logbook, the postmaster did a cursory sweep of his inventory, flipping through each letter before lowering the stack with a frown. “Sorry, lad,” he said.

It was pointless, but Martin asked anyway. “And you’re _sure_ these last few letters have been getting delivered properly?”

“’Course I’m sure. Agatha Blackwood? They get delivered, alright– she always gives my boys a hard time.”

The postmaster held out his hand, gesturing toward Martin’s letter, which he limply handed over.

“Same as usual, then? Special transit?” Taking Martin’s coin, he slapped on the regional stamp. “We’ll get this delivered nice and safe, Mister Blackwood. Gonna be a bit delayed getting out this morning, though.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s just that–” the old man paused, a strange look passing over his face, “ _–_ there’s a fog rolling in.”

“Wha– a _fog?”_

But the postmaster was already taking his stack of letters to the back office. Martin threw out a hand to stop him.

 _“Wait._ How are we getting _fog?_ Autumn’s barely even started!”

“A fog?” The postmaster’s eyebrows bounced up. “No, lad, I was saying my city carrier is running late today. Damn fool was drinking all night, so the rest of us have to pick up the slack. I swear some people …”

“But you said–”

Still mumbling under his breath, the postmaster shouldered his way into the back room, leaving Martin to stare after him.

He _had_ heard him say fog, hadn’t he? Had that been some kind of a joke? That didn’t seem like something the postmaster would do, although Martin couldn’t claim to know him very well.

Maybe he was just tired. All that effort, and the letter was going to be delayed anyway. Hard _not_ to go a little crazy after that.

He made his weary way back up to the castle, a touch out of breath from the steep slope. A few people had started milling about the street, preparing their shops; the baker was laying out a tray of fresh pastries, cinnamon floating in the air, and Martin’s mouth watered. Tempting as it was, though, he couldn’t afford it. It was a frivolous purchase anyway, when breakfast was provided at the–

Something struck his shoulder with enough force to topple him; Martin’s stomach swooped low with panic, but before he could reorient himself, someone snatched his wrist, wrenching him upright. Martin yelped. 

“Oh my God,” he said, head spinning, “I’m _so_ sorry–”

“What a coincidence to find _you_ here, Mister Blackwood.”

Martin froze.

It was that man, Barclay’s guest. The one with the _eyes._

 _Wait._ “H-how do you know my name?”

The nobleman's lips twitched in an indulgent smile. “Don’t you recall meeting at Lord Barclay’s party? Although, given your state, I’m hardly surprised you don’t remember. It’s a shame; you were all anybody could talk about after, well …”

Heat bloomed across Martin’s face. He hadn’t even considered what Barclay’s guests had thought about the whole affair. “I-I’m sorry for ruining your evening,” he said, discreetly trying to pull away, but the grip on his wrist tightened.

“I’ve never seen Barclay so embarrassed before,” the noble said in sympathetic, honeyed tones, “although I’m sure it was far more embarrassing for you. So few people are aware of how Barclay runs his servants into the ground.”

 _“No–_ no, no.” The _last_ thing Martin wanted was to be responsible for sullying Lord Barclay’s reputation. If that happened, he’d have worse things to worry about than just being sacked. “He doesn’t– it was just me–”

“Well, it wasn’t just _you,_ was it? There was that one other serving boy. The one with all the freckles?”

“Ch-Charles?”

“Oh, yes.” An amused glint was lurking within the nobleman’s eyes. “He’s certainly lucky to have a friend like you.”

The nobleman’s cadence was eerily similar to the way Barclay spoke of his game during hunts, and it raised the wiry hairs at the nape of Martin’s neck.

“… what’s that supposed to mean?”

“The poor lad looked _terrified_ for the entire entrée portion– I can only imagine he was _tremendously_ grateful that you stepped in for him. He made it up to you, didn’t he?”

Martin’s hand went slack. In the back of his mind, Charles’ voice echoed,

_If Angie’s too busy, then you and I can do something, yeah?_

Something constricted in his chest.

“Oh, dear,” said the man, one eyebrow arching into his hairline. “I suppose not, then.”

Martin tugged his wrist again, more forceful this time. “Please let go–”

The man hummed like he hadn’t heard Martin at all. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? When the most important people in your life don’t hold you in the same regard. I doubt anyone would stop you, if you decided to give up on the whole endeavor.”

Martin wrenched his arm back, but the nobleman leaned with it, so close his breath brushed Martin’s cheek.

“Aren’t you _lonely_ , Mister Blackwood?”

Martin’s hand fell limp at his side as the man finally released it.

“I would advise returning home when you can,” the noble continued, as if they had merely been making pleasant conversation. “There’s to be a terrible fog this morning, I hear.”

Without a second glance, the nobleman strolled up the hill back toward the castle, until his silhouette disappeared into the morning shadows of the city. The tips of Martin’s fingers were stinging, numbed; he fought the urge to rub at his wrist. More and more people were beginning to come out. Some were looking at him. 

Or maybe he was just imagining that.

It didn’t stop Martin from stumbling into the nearest alley and steadying himself against the wall, heart pounding.

How … _how_ had he known all of those … all those _things–?_

Griffiths.

Of course. Griffiths had said his name during the incident with the wineglass, hadn’t he? Yes, that … that made sense. And if there was a sensible reason for that man to know his name, then there had to be sensible explanations for everything else … right?

He should head back to the castle. Try and get some sleep, even if it was only for a handful of minutes. But if that meant running into the nobleman again, then Martin wanted to stay as far, far, _far_ away from the castle as possible.

There was only one place for him to go when everything got too overwhelming like this.

The stables crouched at the edge of the city, just by the gate. He’d discovered them after Griffiths sent him, during his first year, to check on the mares leading Lord Barclay’s carriages to his summer home. The must of hay and horse were off-putting for some, but it had always left Martin with a vague sense of nostalgia.

“Hello?” Martin called as he approached.

There was a grunt from inside one of the empty stalls. “That you, Blackwood?” The stablemaster straightened and peered out at him, clutching a broom in one hand. “Where’ve you been?”

Guilt squirmed in Martin’s stomach. “Sorry. Things have been pretty busy, up at the castle.”

Snorting, the old man returned to sweeping. “Well, you know where your gear is. Phillipa’s certainly been missing you. Old bat’s restless as anything.”

At least _someone_ missed him, even if that person was a temperamental, elderly horse. Grabbing his tack (an ancient saddle, snaffle bridle, and an old, tattered cloth too raggedy for the actual patrons of the stable), he walked to the furthest stall in the back.

Phillipa craned her neck over the partition, nickering.

“Hey there, girl,” Martin said, giving the mare a pat on her soft, fuzzy nose. 

She shoved his hand, lipping at his fingers.

“Sorry. I know it’s been awhile.”

His mind wandered as he outfitted her with the saddle and reins. Riding had always helped calm him through the worst times, yes, but that wasn’t the only reason he came here. It was hard to enjoy his free time when a lonely horse was sitting, neglected, in a stall somewhere, too old for her proper owners to bother with.

They set out, slowing as they reached the city gate. When one of the guards came in close to search them, Phillipa snorted, skittering back a few steps.

“She’s alright,” said Martin, grip tight on the reins as he led her forward again. “Just a little skittish.”

The guards cleared them without further incident, and once they’d walked a good distance from the main gate, he tapped Phillipa into a comfortable trot, cutting a path through the dewy grass. Martin sucked in a deep breath of the clean, morning air– for the first time in God knew how many hours, his head was clear.

He led them down a familiar, well-worn path into the forest. Weak sunlight cut through the trees towering over them, and the first gentle smatterings of mist had begun to roll through the undergrowth. 

It appeared the postmaster had been correct about a fog. 

As had the strange man. 

_Aren’t you lonely, Mister Blackwood?_

Lonely. Martin bit back a wry chuckle. Hard not to be, in his situation. Hundreds of miles from home, working in the austere castle of a lord who went to great lengths to keep his staff simmering in fear and uncertainty. Nobody was interested in making friends in a place like that. How could anyone _not_ feel lonely? 

But then Charles had showed up. 

Martin had just started his second year in Lord Barclay’s service when Charles began his own training. He hadn’t been sure Charles would make it, at first; their Lord had a way of tamping out excessive enthusiasm– Martin had experienced that first hand. But somehow, Charles stayed himself. He’d never stopped smiling, always asked after everyone. He was nice. _Lovely._

So Martin had made a friend. His first, actually. Someone kind, someone who wasn’t annoyed at his fretting. Someone who spent time with him, who _wanted_ to spend time with him. 

It had been ... good. Feeling like he was someone’s favourite person, for once. 

_Aren’t you lonely?_

Tightness wrapped around his lungs. Martin squeezed his eyes shut, but the pressure didn’t ease. 

What did it mean, to be lonely? 

Was it the dull ache of wondering how long it would take for someone to notice you were gone, if you were to pick a direction and start walking? 

Being in the middle of a crowded room, nudged out of the way until you found yourself alone in a corner, fading into the background as everyone’s conversations carried on without you? 

Wishing you just _mattered_ to somebody, and not even managing that? 

_Lonely._

Was that loneliness? Because if it was, Martin wasn’t sure there’d been a time in his life where he _hadn’t_ been lonely. 

His grip on the reins tightened, until the blisters on his hands from last night split open. 

He was being ridiculous, wasn’t he? Of course he mattered to people. He had his mum, sick and depending on him. Pretty rotten of him to forget that. And he was sure on some level he mattered to Charles, even if it wasn’t in the same way. He mattered to _Phillipa._

This exhaustion had made him more maudlin than usual. Either way, he needed to head back to the castle. His shift would be starting soon. 

Martin wrestled his heavy eyelids open again, and froze.

The fog, which had first emerged as creeping tendrils of mist, had grown so oppressive he could barely make out the lacing on his boots, much less the intimidating trees pressing in around him. 

Martin’s pulse jumped. Had he nodded off and not realised? Was he even on the same trail anymore? 

Most importantly, would he be able to find his way _out?_

Phillipa’s ears flicked back with a nervous whicker. Martin shushed her, rubbing her neck in soothing circles. 

“We’ll be okay,” he said, for his benefit just as much as Phillipa’s. 

They continued through the forest at a steady clip. Searching for familiar landmarks yielded nothing but murky trees. Phillipa knew the forest better than he did; he would just have to trust she knew the way out. 

The blanket of fog had swallowed the sun, making it impossible to determine what hour it was. After an indeterminate amount of riding, the trees began to thin on one side. A clearing– and there was something peculiar within it. Nudging Phillipa off the trail, he craned his neck to get a better look. 

It was a spire. The closer they drew, the more of its outline he could make out. The spire loomed over some manner of an estate. 

Martin blinked. An estate, _here?_ And a pretty big one at that. He’d moved to this region only a few years ago, but he was confident Lord Barclay’s castle was the only estate in these parts. Barclay’s ego wouldn’t allow anything else.

A twig snapped beside him, and Martin gasped, whirling in the saddle. 

There was a figure standing in the fog to his left. They were cloaked, a hood obscuring their features, one hand braced against a tree trunk. Their eyes locked, and the figure took a halting step back.

“H-Hello–?” Martin started, but stiffened when Phillipa advanced, her nostrils flaring. _“Wait,_ Phillipa _, stop–”_

The figure stood frozen as Phillipa’s soft nose came within an inch of their chest, snuffling cautiously. After a long moment, they lifted their hand–

Phillipa _screamed,_ piercing through the fog, and reared up on her hind legs. Unprepared, Martin shouted as the motion tore him from his saddle– for a split second he hung suspended in air. 

Then gravity reasserted itself, and Martin hit the ground with a sickening _crunch._ White hot pain flared in the back of his head, and the world swam in and out of focus.

Phillipa’s frenzied galloping faded off into the distance.

Footsteps. The mysterious figure was crouching over him, brown eyes wide with panic.

Martin tried to open his mouth – to say he was fine, maybe, or that everything was going to be alright – but he couldn’t hold his eyes open, and they slid shut without his permission. 

Everything fell away.


	2. The Estate

Martin's dreams were murky things, cut to the clop of fading hoofbeats and a pair of frightened eyes– eyes that kept locking with his own as the world faded in and out. At some point they'd manifested fully into a man– he was saying something, a string of urgent, unintelligible words that blistered the air around them.

“–tay with me, don’t– no, no, _no, no–”_

Martin’s vision greyed out before he could make out the rest.

When he resurfaced, he was lying in a … a bed? Was … this the castle infirmary–? No, he didn’t think even Lord Barclay’s mattress was _this_ comfortable. And the rock slab cots lining the servants’ infirmary didn’t have four poster canopies, either …

 _Strange dream_. Everything wobbled, and grew dark again.

And then he was blinking awake. The bed and its canopy were still there, as lavish as they’d been in his dream. 

“Are you awake properly, this time?”

The unfamiliar voice had Martin lurching upright. Pain zinged through his skull; he groaned, pressing a hand to one eye.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “I-I guess so?”

The man sitting beside him let out a slow breath, some of the stiffness unwinding from his posture. “You’ve had a few false starts,” he explained. “Understandable, given your head injury.”

 _Head injury_. The events from earlier came rushing back to him– Martin’s vision was still swimming, but he _recognised_ this man, or the colour of his eyes, at least. They were the same shade of brown as the mysterious figure from the fog. He’d since pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing dark skin marred with pockmarks on one side of his fine-boned face. His hair had been tied up in a silvering bird's nest of a bun, and a few thin strands had fallen to brush the shoulders of a richly embroidered vest.

Martin tallied it all up: posh manner, fine clothes, the thin, borderline regal cut of his face. Despite the incongruity of his scars and disheveled hair, the facts pointed to one thing– this had to be the lord of that mysterious estate.

A mysterious estate he was now inside, with an injury that had stars dancing before his eyes. “How–” Martin started, then paused to steady his breathing. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.” The man pulled an ornate pocket watch from his vest pocket, squinting. “It’s about five o’clock.”

“In the _afternoon?_ ”

“Does it look like five o’clock in the morning to you?” the man demanded, gesturing to the window. He was right; a weak orange sunset had begun staining the sky, casting dark shadows from the treeline over the estate’s grounds.

“No.” The word had been torn from Martin’s mouth with a burst of horror. He scrambled for the sheets, startling a noise from his host.

“What on _earth_ do you think you’re doing?”

Martin wasn’t listening; the image of Lord Barclay’s cold eyes as he told him, in unequivocal terms, that he was _sacked_ had sent a low, buzzing static through his ears. “I’m sorry, thank you for taking me in, but I need t– I need to–” He had to get _back_ – for his mum, if nothing else. Oh, _God,_ if he lost this job _now_ …

“What you _need_ is to lie back down.” Martin’s bare foot had scarcely touched the floor before the man rose to his feet, thrusting a hand against his chest. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’ve been _concussed.”_

Martin was unceremoniously shoved back down. He could've fought back– the stranger's wrists were stick-thin where they stuck out past the sleeves of his tunic, and Martin wasn’t exactly _small_ – but the sudden motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him, and Martin couldn't summon the strength for it.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” the man said, eyes fierce. “In your current state, you’ll _collapse_ before you ever make it out of this forest. Is that what you want?”

The words hung in the air between them. Martin swallowed, shaking his head.

_“Then lie down.”_

Cowed, Martin sank back into the mattress. Once it was clear he wasn’t struggling, the man relaxed, withdrawing his hand from Martin’s chest.

 _“Thank_ you,” he said, sitting back down. Then his shoulders sagged. “I … apologise. I’m sure you have somewhere important to be, and you’ve been hurt as a direct result of my actions. Please believe me when I say this was not my intention.”

A heavy note of guilt rang through his voice, and Martin’s chest panged with instinctive sympathy. “I-it’s fine. It was just an accident.”

If anything, the grim set of his host’s mouth worsened. “I should also warn you– your horse ran off. I tried looking for her after bringing you here, but she doesn’t appear to be in the area.”

 _Oh God, Phillipa._ "… she's resourceful," Martin said, but it was much weaker this time. "I wouldn't be surprised if she’s found her way back home already." 

The stranger kept his gaze trained on his hands. “ … I– yes, of course. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” Abruptly, he stood once more. “I assume you’re hungry? Now that you’re awake, I can bring you something to eat.”

Martin jumped. “Oh, uh.” It would have been a full day since he'd last eaten, by now. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep anything down. Based on the strange intensity in the man’s eyes, though, only one correct answer existed. “Y-yes, I– um, thank you. Actually some– some tea would be nice?”

A single, sharp nod was his only response; the man turned on his heel, making a beeline for the door. 

Martin held out a hand before he could stop himself. “ _Wait–_ wait.”

The man turned, arching one brow, and heat washed over Martin’s face. He hadn’t _actually_ had anything important to say, but they hadn’t even exchanged _names._

“Sorry, I just … wanted to thank you. For– for taking me in.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Martin, by the way. Martin Blackwood.”

“A … pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Blackwood.”

Martin flushed. "Oh– just Martin is fine. Um … c-can I ask for your name?” 

Silence stretched taffy-thin between them as his host studied him, expression unreadable. Martin's breath stilled in his lungs– was he being measured up? Found wanting somehow? He'd only asked for a _name–_

“Jon.”

Martin stiffened, but with a snap of his cloak, the man vanished, closing the door behind him.

_Jon._

Martin wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been _that._ Jon. It was so … _common_. Approachable, for such an unapproachable man. Perhaps it was a family name.

Musings about Jon’s name could only distract him for so long, however, with his worst case scenario waiting for him back in the real world. Barclay would make him _beg_ if he wanted to continue working in the castle, especially after last night’s disaster. 

Martin dropped his head in his hands. He was as good as sacked.

Distraction. He needed a good distraction. Anything to take his mind off agonising– not like he could fix anything confined to a bed by a stranger.

Lifting his head, he took a moment to peer around the room. It was bigger than the servants’ dormitory he shared with the others back at Barclay’s castle. To his right was an old, carved wardrobe; the desk and chair beside it had been made out of smooth mahogany. Paintings, their colours dulled by time, were hanging lopsided on some of the walls– a stark contrast to the faded wallpaper beneath them. Settled over it all was a fine layer of dust; only the chair, and the bed Martin was lying in, had been cleared of it.

Obvious disuse aside, even Lord Barclay’s accommodations weren’t _this_ opulent. An unexpected twinge of guilt shot through Martin’s chest, as if he was doing something wrong. Stealing comfort that didn’t belong to him.

By the time Jon came back, the sunset had shifted from orange to a slow-burning red that dappled the sky. Tucked in the crook of his elbow was an unidentifiable bolt of cloth, and in his hands, a dinner tray. A _silver_ dinner tray. “I apologise for the simplicity of the meal,” Jon said. “It’s … been some time since I’ve had the opportunity to cook.”

Had … was Jon implying that he, the lord of this house, had cooked for _Martin?_ Martin swallowed, tearing his gaze from Jon back to the tray. Why wouldn’t the _kitchen staff_ be making his meals?

Jon didn't hand him the tray so much as he slid it into Martin’s lap; on it was a bowl of boiled vegetables, and next to that, a steaming cup of tea. Simple, yes, but Martin was grateful nonetheless.

“Thank you, really,” said Martin, entirely too genuine. Under the attentive eyes of his host, he shovelled a spoonful of turnip and carrot into his mouth, and started to chew. He stopped.

Jon leaned forward, poised. “How i– er, that is, I hope it’s to your satisfaction.”

Martin steeled himself and kept chewing, scrambling for a neutral expression. While the outside of the vegetables were soggy, their insides _crunched_ against his molars, sending shudders down his spine. _Underboiled_ , his mind supplied helpfully.

It was, perhaps, one of the worst meals he’d eaten in his life.

“It’s great,” he lied, smiling past the curdling in his stomach. Jon had made this _himself_ , and Martin was going to _die_ before he willingly insulted a lord to his face.

Jon released a quiet breath. “That’s … good.” He unwound the cloth draped over his forearm; it was a nightshirt and cap, made of fabric that could’ve been water for how it piled onto the sheets. “These are for you to wear to bed. You can find something to change into tomorrow in the wardrobe. Please inform me if there are any that don’t fit.” He winced. “And you’ll have to excuse me if you find anything that’s been chewed through. It’s impossible, keeping the moths out this time of year.”

“Tha– thank you?”

“You, ah,” Jon hesitated, before clearing his throat. “Seeing you’re here because of me, you’re welcome to stay until you’ve made a full recovery.” His voice grew guarded. “My only stipulation is that you remain in your rooms at night.”

Martin paused.

It wasn't that unusual of a request– Martin was a stranger, of course Jon didn’t want him wandering about at night. No, what snagged Martin’s attention was the faint, nervous hitch of his shoulders as he said it.

“O-of course.” Martin’s throat bobbed. “Is it– can I ask why?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

 _Oh, hell_. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right. I-it’s just, I don’t know …” _kind of strange?_ But the impatient twist of Jon’s mouth stopped him cold.

The silence dragged, then Jon crossed his arms. “I have a dog.”

“A … dog?”

“Yes. Big, vicious thing. He … patrols the manor at night– and he’s not partial to strangers.”

Oh. Well, that … that made sense, didn’t it? Still _odd_ , though– Barclay had a whole team of hunting dogs, and none of them were allowed to wander the grounds without supervision. They weren’t _pets,_ and they certainly weren’t _guards._ It appeared this one was, though.

“What’s his name?” Martin asked, before he could think better of it.

“What?”

“The dog.” Martin held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, it’s just, I love dogs. My neighbors had one when I was a kid. Ol’ Frankie.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed even further. “John.”

“… John.”

“Yes.”

“John … the dog?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“You named the dog after yourself?”

The look Jon shot him was equal parts baffled and incredulous. “I came into possession of the dog _after_ it received its name. And, besides, it’s John, spelled with an H.”

“I … see."

Jon glowered, as if daring him to continue, then reached into his pocket. “One last thing. I noticed … well, here.” With an oddly stiff motion, he held out a small glass jar of salve. “For your hands. It would be irresponsible of me, as your host, to let them ulcerate unchecked.”

Startled, Martin glanced down at his hands– they were still covered in blisters from scrubbing last night’s mountain of dishes. He’d forgotten about them in all the chaos.

“Th-thanks,” he said, accepting the jar.

Clearing his throat, Jon stepped back. “I’ll let you finish your meal. You can expect me tomorrow morning with breakfast.” One hand on the door, he hesitated, then added in a soft undertone, “Get some rest.”

Jon was gone before Martin could answer. He was alone once again.

Unscrewing the lid of the jar, Martin gave the ointment an experimental sniff– honey and almonds. He scooped out a dollop and rubbed it into the damaged skin of his hands, sighing as it cooled the sting of his blisters. Astonishing, that Jon had noticed at all– Martin was so used to it, he would have left them to rot on his own.

He finished his dinner, half out of pragmaticism, half because he didn't want to risk insulting his host. At least the tea was good.

Tray set aside, Martin began unbuttoning his dress shirt. What an unusual sight he must have made, passed out on the ground in formal wear. The clothes Jon had provided were silky against his skin, marred only by the must of disuse– still a luxury for a person with Martin’s background.

It wasn't enough to distract him from the cold knot of trepidation that twisted inside his stomach. But Jon had been right; even if he _had_ known the way, he would never make it back in his current state, especially without Phillipa. 

At the very least, things couldn’t get much worse. There was solace in that. 

Martin settled back against the pillows. With so many thoughts racing through his head, sleep should’ve been impossible– but the moment he closed his eyes, the rest of the world slipped away.

_“Here you are!” Martin’s eyes flew open as Charles dropped the tray into his arms. Its contents had been obscured by a covering; Martin couldn’t make heads or tails of what was inside, but whatever it was, it was heavy enough that he buckled under its weight._

_Charles winked. “Better you than me, right?”_

_“R-right.”_

_“Well, go on then. He’s hungry!”_

_Pulse pounding in his ears, Martin scurried into the dark hallway. None of the candles had been lit, but he knew the way by heart. His arm shook under the weight of the tray– carrying it with both hands would’ve been easier, but that wasn’t proper. And Lord Barclay was so particular about being proper …_

_The grand door leading into the dining hall drew closer, and a coil of apprehension burrowed into Martin’s gut. An unusual smell had started emitting from the platter– sweet and gamey, meat mixed with sugar glaze. His feet moved, relentless, and with every step, that sinking pit of dread at the core of him grew heavier._

_He opened the door. The dining hall was empty, save for where Barclay sat at the head of the table. A single lit candle shone down on the dozens of empty plates surrounding him. Barclay wiped his mouth with a pristine napkin, and waved Martin forward._

_Martin’s hands were trembling. He placed the tray on the table in front of Barclay, in between the scattered, stained plates. At his Lord’s signal, he removed the covering with as much flourish as he could._

_It was empty._

_The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stood on end. Run, his instincts screamed. Get away, now!_

_Barclay looked up at him, green eyes glittering dangerously. “Well?”_

_Martin started– at some point he'd been lowered into a chair. In ginger increments, he leaned over until his head was resting against the cool metal plate, each shuddering breath fogging its silver coating. Barclay reached for his utensils; Martin squeezed his eyes shut, praying that, for once, Barclay wouldn’t start with–_

_“Eyes open.”_

_Swallowing, Martin obediently pried them back open. The fork hovered out-of-focus, brushing his eyelashes._

_Somewhere beyond Barclay’s hall, a voice brushed against the edges of his hearing._

_“–Hello?”_

_The fork plunged down–_

Martin jolted awake, his hair drenched in sweat. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, illuminating swathes of dust motes floating through each beam. It must have been around mid-morning. Reflexive panic welled in the back of his throat ( _late, oh God, he was so incredibly late_ ) before the events of yesterday came back to him. The panic slipped away, dulled with leaden resignation.

Sleeping in was nice, at least; when was the last time he’d been this indulgent? Giving in to the mattress' siren's call was tempting– he could have slept longer, waited until Jon came to wake him up. But while the dreams’ contents had slipped away faster than he could recall, their weight sat heavy on the back of his tongue. He wasn’t particularly interested in returning.

Taking a chance, he tossed aside his blanket and slid onto his feet. His heart lifted– had he recovered enough to make it back to the castle?

The world spun on its axis, and Martin caught himself against the wooden bed poster before he collapsed. 

Ah. As if he could be so lucky.

With one hand against the wall for support, Martin shuffled his way over to the wardrobe. The hinges creaked as he opened it– Lord, everything here needed a good cleaning. He’d have been tanned for letting a room fall into this much disrepair on Griffiths’ watch. Hopefully, the clothes would be in better–

Martin’s mind blanked. The clothes were indeed in better shape, but the options inside were … far more expensive than he was used to wearing. Was Jon not worried about Martin ruining them? Although they must’ve belonged to someone else– these were all too big for Jon. Whoever they belonged to, Martin prayed they wouldn’t mind him wearing their clothes.

He selected the plainest tunic and trousers he could find among the ornate, embroidered lot. None of them had moth holes, at least; Jon would be happy to hear that.

Speaking of his mysterious host …

As soon as he was confident he could walk without falling over, Martin opened the door to the hallway, glancing out into the hall. No dog; that was a good sign. Jon had mentioned bringing breakfast– the smartest idea was for Martin to wait inside his room, but his curiosity was _burning_. What did the estate of such an eccentric lord look like, anyway?

Surely he could risk a quick look around before Jon arrived.

Martin closed the door behind him with a gentle _click_ , eyes roving over the hallway.

It appeared that the estate of a lord like Jon looked incredibly _dusty_.

Martin dragged an experimental finger over the surface of a nearby windowpane; it came back smeared with grime. Griffiths would’ve died on the spot– what on _earth_ was Jon’s staff doing? Taking advantage of Jon’s generosity and shirking their responsibilities?

He picked a direction at random and began to walk, keeping one eye peeled for someone who could point him in a useful direction. This section of the manor appeared to have been functionally abandoned, though; perhaps Jon had wanted to ensure Martin’s privacy, although that seemed like an unnecessary effort.

By the time he reached what must have been the grand staircase of a foyer, he _still_ hadn’t encountered another living being. Martin faltered, eyes grazing over the crusted windows, before dipping to linger on an old, broken gramophone at the bottom floor.

Where _was_ everybody?

He continued trailing through the manor, more apprehensive now. Each step brought with it the sense he was a misplaced ghost; alone and drifting, untethered from reality. The layout of the hallways had a labyrinthian element to their design– a wise man would have turned back at risk of becoming lost, but ... 

It was as if someone had wrapped a string around his joints, tugging his feet forward. Martin couldn’t have turned back even if he’d wanted to.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, crescendoing until they threatened to drive knives into his eardrums. No other noise penetrated the corridors; even the milky light filtering through the manor's windows couldn’t reach him. The outside world had been choked off, as effectively as it had in the fog.

Panic swelled inside his lungs. Was there really _nobody_ here? In a desperate bid, Martin threw open the first door to his left, hoping someone, _anyone,_ would be on the other side.

Instead, he found the library. 

Stumbling backwards, his jaw went slack.

Martin had only seen two libraries in his life: the small, tattered bookshelf in the back of his mother’s church, and Lord Barclay’s personal collection– although the servants couldn’t make any selections for themselves. An entire _room_ full of books, Martin had assumed it was among the largest collections of its kind.

He’d been wrong.

What stood before of him now were _two stories_ worth of wall-to-wall bookshelves, brimming with texts and tomes in exquisite leather bindings. The scent of old parchment tickled Martin’s nose, sending him back to that dusty corner of the church, escaping through tattered parables and hymns.

Entranced, Martin stepped into the enormous room, leaving the door hanging open behind him. Giddy compulsion had him plucking out the first book he laid eyes on. A cookbook; although the language inside was unfamiliar, every page had been filled with mouthwatering illustrations. He selected another book at random: this time, a book of astronomy. And after that, a love story. Martin fought the urge to laugh, breathless. Just how many different books did Jon _have?_

Tucking all three in the crook of his arm, he continued down the aisle, reverent fingers brushing over each spine as he passed. A vast majority of them had been left untouched; preserved, perhaps, to maintain the appearance of esteem. That was the only reason Barclay ever added to _his_ works. But occasionally, he’d come across a book with frayed pages, its spine threadbare. Not mishandled, though. None of the pages had been dogeared, or the bindings broken. No, these carried the air of a book well-loved, read so many times over the years they’d been worn down to the glue. Martin took those with him as well, adding them to the growing collection in his arms.

When the first throbs of a sharp ache began pulsing at the back of his head, Martin ignored it. He couldn’t just _leave_ , not with so much begging for his attention. When would he ever come across an opportunity to browse through a collection like this again? No, he _had_ to make the most of it, while he still could. But as Martin reached the far corner of the library, he slowed. A door was tucked away here, in a corner where no sunlight reached. It was nondescript, out of place in its simplicity– and yet, something about it drew Martin closer. Cool air seeped from between the door’s cracks, beckoning his curiosity.

His fingers grazed the brass handle–

_“Don’t touch that.”_

Martin yelped, books crashing to the ground.

Jon was standing at the end of the aisle with eyes like chips of ice. Heat bloomed across Martin’s face. This hadn’t been how he’d planned to encounter his host again: caught like a child sneaking sweets from the pantry.

“Sorry,” he stammered, scrambling to scoop up the fallen books. God, he’d _dropped_ them. “I-I wasn’t– I didn’t mean to–”

“How many times do I have to say the word _concussed_ before it sinks in?” With a sigh, Jon bent over to pick up the remaining books, depositing them on a random bookshelf before swiping the rest from Martin’s hands. Martin flinched, and the lines around Jon’s mouth deepened. "You're in no condition to be wandering, let alone nosing around into places you shouldn't."

"I– I wasn't trying to, to _snoop_ or anything–"

"Really." Jon shot a cool, pointed glance at the door. The flush crawled down to Martin's neck, prickling in time with his erratic pulse. 

"Sorry," he said again, lamely. "I really didn't mean to– I-I was just ... curious."

" _Curious_. Of course.” With a sigh, Jon dropped the remaining books into another untidy stack, clapping dust off his hands. “I’ll show you back to your rooms– breakfast is waiting for you.”

Jon shouldered his way back out of the aisle, leaving Martin no choice but to follow. He was too embarrassed to protest even if he wanted to, but– his eyes lingered on the stack of books as they passed, mournful. It would have been nice to read at least _one_.

Jon urged him back into bed as soon as they reached Martin’s rooms, then turned to the breakfast tray he’d left on the desk. Martin fought down the growing dread at what Jon could have possibly prepared for this morning– but when Jon placed the tray on the bed, he breathed a sigh of relief. Bread, butter, and a bowl of chestnuts. Absolutely no risk of anything overboiled here. And the bread was fresh, too– delicate wisps of steam rose to curl in the dusty air. Had Jon made this himself as well? It had come out better than the first meal, that was certain.

“Thank you,” Martin mumbled, picking up the bread knife to smear butter over a slice. 

Jon’s frosty expression didn’t change. "Why in the _world_ did– I can't _imagine_ what possessed you to roam around this morning. Do you have any idea what I experienced when I found you _gone?_ "

A spasm of guilt tangled in Martin’s gut. “S-sorry. I just … wanted to look around, a little.”

"There's nothing worth looking _at_. This place may as well be a mausoleum.” 

Martin's head whipped up. "You can't mean that."

A wry silence.

"Seriously? But your– your library is _amazing!_ I've honestly never seen anything like it."

“Th– the library?” Some of the severity in Jon's expression vanished; he blinked, opening and closing his mouth. “… Oh. Well, thank you, I suppose. But I’m, ah … I’m not the owner of that collection.” A shy, almost pleased note crept into his voice. “I did help retrieve a few of the rarer tomes, however. ” 

Slice of bread halfway to his mouth, Martin paused. “You … but I thought …?” 

One arched brow crept toward Jon’s hairline. “You thought … ?” 

“I’m sorry, but– aren't you the lord of this place?” 

“No.”

“But then who … why are you …?”

For someone so young, Jon had _far_ too much stress lining his face. “It’s … complicated. You could say I inherited this place from its previous owner.” 

“Your father?”

 _“No,”_ Jon said, blanching. Then, without warning, he pitched forward. “I’ve been wondering if you'll entertain a question from me.” 

Martin startled. Now _there's_ a conversation change. “Y-yes?” 

“You were dressed too nicely to be working in someplace like a smithy. But your hands ... I assume you’re a labourer of some kind?” 

“Oh.” Flustered, Martin set down the piece of bread. Why would Jon want to know a mundane thing like that? “I’m, um, I’m a server in Lord Barclay’s estate, actually.” 

“Barclay?” 

“Yes, Lord Barclay. Lord Frederick Barclay?” Jon was still frowning. “Your _Lord._ _Your_ Lord, if you live in this region.”

“You really expect me to know the name of every noble that goes parading themselves around these parts like an arsehole?”

“I-I … suppose not?” Martin didn’t understand how Jon _couldn’t_ know, though. What about his _taxes?_ “H-how about you?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Well, you said the library wasn’t yours, right? And … you said you’re not the lord of the estate, yeah?” 

“In a legal sense, no.” 

Well _that_ was an interesting answer, but Martin was learning not to ask for elaboration. “So, what do you … do?” 

Jon scowled. “I don’t see why it _matters_.”

“S-sorry.” 

"You apologise a great deal, you’re aware of this?"

"S–" Martin bit it back just in time. Jon blew out a haggard, long-suffering sigh. 

“But I … _suppose_ it’s only a fair trade. If you really _must_ know, I was – am, I suppose – the Head Archivist of this estate.”

Martin’s brows flew up– Head Archivist? That had to be rather prestigious. Did Barclay have a similar role anywhere present in his staff? The only thing Martin could think of that compared was … “So, like a librarian?”

 _“Not_ like a librarian.” But Jon’s mouth twitched. “I suppose there is some overlap. It was more than just filing books and keeping things tidy, though. We were also researchers.”

Martin's ears perked. “We?”

“… Yes. I … I did have a team working alongside me, previously. We researched unusual encounters, on behalf of our patron.”

“What kind of unusual encounters?” Fascinated, Martin leaned forward. “You mean like, like love affairs?” 

“Nothing as salacious as that.” A slight smile broke out across his lips. “Although there– there _was_ one time … ” 

He stilled, trailing off. The fragile warmth that had been growing behind his eyes shuttered.

“Although … ?” Martin prompted after a beat.

Jon’s expression could've been carved from stone. He said nothing, shoulders hunched under some unseen burden.

A suspicion had been brewing in the back of Martin’s mind since his crawl through the manor's hallways, and now, with Jon coiled tense as a spring in front of him, it came roaring back full force. Well, if there was ever a time for inquiries … “Can I ask you something?”

Jon huffed, and Martin winced. 

“Right. Um. I guess I just wanted to ask–” oh, how to _phrase_ it …? “–is … is there anyone else … _here?”_

Jon’s eyes lowered to rest on his hands. “No,” he said. “It’s just me. And now you, I suppose.”

And all at once, the pieces fell into place. Jon's cooking, his nonchalance about the borrowed clothes, the dust that had settled in a thick carpet over everything Martin, or Jon himself, hadn't touched. For the second time today Martin was left staring, dumbfounded. “… I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“This place is _gigantic._ Don’t you …” Martin glanced down at his lap, thumbing a loose thread in the duvet. “There’s really no one here?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Jon’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need your _pity_. Why else would I be here if I didn’t _prefer it_ this way?”

Martin opened his mouth, but Jon stood before he could reply, stormclouds thundering in his eyes. “This has been more than enough excitement for one day– I'll let you get some rest.”

He'd already made it to the door when Martin regained control of his voice. “Thank you for the ointment.”

Jon stopped, one hand frozen on the door’s handle. “Pardon?”

“The hand cream. It, uh, it helped. Thank you for noticing. And … and I’m sorry for … everything, I guess.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment, then lifted his chin. "Glad I could be of some service.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Martin counted his footsteps until even their echoes faded down the hall entirely. It was probably for the best that he followed Jon’s instructions and got some rest. He had the gnawing sense that he was wearing out his welcome, fast. He’d already nestled back into the mattress when a flash outside his window made him shoot back up.

Snow. Fluttering snowflakes were dancing on an invisible wind just beyond the glass. Martin rubbed his eyes– once, twice– but they were still there. A trick of the light– it had to be. Some … half-asleep hallucination. He still had a ways to go before he was recovered, after all. _Imagine–_ snow, at this time of year.

Putting it out of his mind, Martin pulled the duvet over him, and, with very little effort, drifted away again.

_“–Hello?”_

_Martin stumbled to a halt, dinner tray in hand. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t have time to stop– there was still so much of the hallway left to go. But …_

_There. A door had appeared in the hall. Or had it always been there? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he_ remember _…?_

_“You’re going to be late,” Charles said, somewhere off in the distance._

_Late. Yes: Barclay’s dinner. He … he needed to leave. He was going to get everybody in trouble–_

_“–go.”_

_There it was again. Martin’s legs were stone; unable to move to the door, unable to move down the hallway. They_ had _said_ go _, right? He had to deliver Barclay’s dinner. But …_

_“You’re going to be late,” Mum said. Her eyes were hazy, unclear. What a wretched son he was; couldn’t even recall the colour of his own mother’s eyes …_

_“I’m sorry,” he said, but even he couldn’t tell who it was for._

Martin woke with aching arms and gummed eyes. Sunbeams were once again pouring in through his window, and this time, the accompanying disorientation faded faster. Was it already morning? He must’ve slept right through dinner– this bloody mattress made it too easy. And for once he was actually hungry. _Properly_ hungry, too, without the accompanying nausea or weakness he’d grown accustomed to during his morning routine at the castle.

Today, the silver tray was waiting for him on the desk– Jon had already come through this morning, likely an effort to keep him from waking, or wandering off again. It was only as Martin was reaching for the tray that he noticed the books. Three of them, stacked on top of each other. Next to them were several pieces of folded parchment. 

_Martin_ , the letter started, with graceful, cursive handwriting, and something in Martin’s chest swooped low.

 _Here are some collections from the library, should you find yourself in need of entertainment. I had some difficulty choosing a recommendation, but I feel that these three have fairly universal appeal. Please take your injury into consideration, but I trust you to do what feels right for yourself._

_Kinsey’s Survival on the Front Lines, especially, I find quite compelling. It’s a collection of memoirs from Kinsey’s time in war, and while a few have criticised his writing style as a bit dry, I find the contrast between his straightforwardness against the reality of war is how he’s able to make his point so clearly ..._

Martin read slowly, eyebrows climbing higher and higher with each word. 

The letter was five pages total, front and back. All detailing Jon’s reasoning for the selections he’d made, from their historical relevance, to his opinion on their style of prose. Was there _anything_ in Martin’s life that he could talk about for so long? That he was so passionate about? Maybe his poetry, mediocre as it was, but not with half as much eloquence. 

Buried in the text, tucked between hesitant, tentative platitudes, were Jon's personal reasons for enjoying each book, such as _I would often find myself returning to this text during my apprenticeship,_ and _Some might consider Williamson’s humour a bit crude, but I still found it enjoyable._

Martin lingered longest on these, drinking in each tidbit with the avidity of a book-starved scholar. 

The letter concluded with, 

_By now I’ve realised I needn’t have gone on for so long, but I’ve already spent two hours writing this, and it seems a wasted effort if I just tossed it, so ... there you are. If you made it this far, anyway. Admirable, if you have._

_If the choice between the three books still proves to be too much, I would suggest Sutherland’s Mythos of the Ages as a start. It’s simple, but, as I’ve mentioned, the illustrative work is astounding, and although it’s rather sentimental, I find the tales of some comfort to me._

_Jon_

Martin traced the elegant swoop of the J, heart ballooning in his chest until he might burst. 

_Oh_. 

It was such a stark juxtaposition from the bristling man of yesterday. Every interaction with Jon had, so far, been hitched with tension– for all intents and purposes, the man appeared to have no interest in forming even an acquaintanceship, and why would he? They had only met because Martin had fallen on a sharp rock, not because they were both passing through the market, discovering they patronized the same vendor for their eggs through amicable conversation.

But this … the unexpected thoughtfulness stole Martin's breath from his chest. That Jon had noticed, and gone through the trouble of bringing him books– providing personal reasons for _liking_ those books …

Face warm, he reached for his breakfast, and picked up the book of fairy tales. He recognised it– it was one of the frayed copies he had found during his initial run through the library. He thumbed through the pages, amused bafflement welling up in his chest. What an unusual recommendation for a man like Jon to make. He had been right, though; the illustrations were _beautiful_. 

So Martin got comfortable. Settled back against the headboard. Flipped through his new book. Sipped the tea someone else had made for him. 

How long had it been since he’d done something like this? Just … _relaxed?_ Life at the castle was so hectic– even the brief periods he stole for himself were often interrupted by some surprise chore that needed his immediate attention. Those rare times it wasn’t, there was always the painful countdown of each hour slipping away, like sand in an hourglass. _Three hours until I have to get back to work … two hours … one hour … five minutes …_

Even living with Mum, most of his time had been taken up with housekeeping, running errands, making sure she was fed, preparing her medicine. And he’d _never_ complained about that– he’d _loved_ taking care of his mother, making sure she was happy. But … he’d never been able to just _sit,_ not without all the things he had left to do pressing down on him. And there had _always_ been something left to do. Dishes, laundry, cooking, cleaning, _something._ Something that would need tending the minute he got back up again.

Now, the only thing he had to do was … rest. Wait until he felt better. The anxiety of wondering if he still had a job weighed on him, yes, but Jon was right. He wasn’t in a fit state to make his way home anyway, much less work. Not that he'd ever let feeling unwell stop him before– he could never afford to– but this time, the choice had effectively been taken away from him, by someone who was genuinely concerned for his health. Who, despite his prickly nature, brought him food, and tea, and salve for his hands, and– and _books_ , and an entire essay on the reasons _why_ Martin should read those books. 

He’d never felt so _cared_ for _._

He should … he should write something. 

The thought came to him unbidden, and he lowered the book. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried any poetry. Perhaps during those early weeks in his employment, before the responsibilities had started piling on. After that, there had always been something more pressing to worry about.

What better time to get the creative gears rolling than during an unexpected sick leave?

But first, he needed paper. 

Setting the book aside, Martin slid to his feet, waiting for one breathless moment before stepping further into the room. When he didn’t pitch, or even sway, he began his search.

He checked the end table and the desk drawers first. Nothing. No notebooks, or journals, or anything of the sort. Maybe he could just use the extra space on the letter, though. Surely Jon wouldn’t mind? It was appropriate, in a way. Almost … _poetic_. He laughed under his breath. 

Pen, now he needed to look for a pen. Pen, pen, pen, _where_ might one find a _pen … ?_

There was still nothing new in the desk drawers, and the dresser or wardrobe didn’t reveal anything, either. He even checked the pockets of the outfits, just in case, and still, nothing. This was starting to pose a greater challenge than he had first anticipated. 

Well, he was steady enough to walk around a bit. Jon might’ve discouraged wandering, but he’d also said in the letter that he trusted Martin to do right for himself. And it was hours before he’d be back with food– Jon wouldn't have to come back to an empty room again. 

He changed into a fresh pair of clothes before peeking out into the hallway. Nothing had changed outside of the dust trails that he’d created yesterday. The nearby rooms– mostly bedrooms and lounge areas– didn’t yield anything either. _Not a single bloody pen_. 

Was it a conspiracy? Had Jon _removed_ all the pens in the event Martin was plotting some cunning escape? With the _pens?_ What was he supposed to do, send a letter calling for help? _Help, I’ve been kidnapped by an agoraphobic archivist, someone please save me from his hospitable clutches._ Did the post even _come_ this far into the forest? 

An indeterminable point later, he wandered into a sitting room, sneezing twice at the cloud of dust he kicked up. Even compared to the rest of the manor, this room had been starkly neglected, with boarded windows and an empty fireplace coated in soot. A chair faced the fireplace, well-worn and loved. Whoever had used this place– Jon, or someone else– must have spent a lot of time here. Above the fireplace was a portrait. Martin approached it, squinting through the musty darkness. It was an older man, old enough to be Martin’s father. There was a cut to his gaze that sent a shudder of familiarity down Martin’s spine. 

Was this the original lord of the house? The austerity of his expression and clothing marked him as nobility. And those eyes ... Perhaps a distant relation of Jon? Although Jon had claimed he had no familial relation to the lord of this manor, hadn’t he? 

Well, whoever they were, they were long dead if the aged paints of the portrait were anything to go by. He should leave. Not only because the portrait was beginning to make him uncomfortable, but also because the sun had shifted behind the boarded windows. Jon would be coming around soon. 

He was turning back to his room when a shout blistered the air somewhere behind him. Martin whirled; there– further down the hall, where a sliver of light had slipped through a crack in the door. Martin broke into a jog, skidding to a stop right in front of it. It was the entrance to the kitchens, and Martin peeked inside the door; cast iron dishware was hanging to dry above the furnace, and on the stove, a pot bubbled with boiling water, steam rising in waves. To one side was a small pile of sliced vegetables, and standing in front of _that,_ was Jon. He was bent over the counter, clutching his hand.

A flash of crimson.

_Blood._

Martin burst into the room. “ _Are you okay?_ ”

Jon spun around just as Martin reached out for his hand. Panic squeezed his throat. A cut had been gouged from the meat of Jon’s hand to the divot in his palm, brutal and smooth. Jesus. _Jesus_. Martin needed to find some gauze and, _shit_ , did Jon even _have_ any rubbing alcohol–?

Wait.

He thumbed the edges of the wound. This wasn’t a cut. It was a _scar_. An old one, at that. The edges had long since pinked and dulled with time. There was no trace of a new wound. No blood. Martin could have _sworn …_

“I’m _fine_ ,” Jon snapped, ripping his hand out of Martin’s grasp, and Martin backed away.

“I’m sorry, that was … I shouldn’t have grabbed at you–”

“No. You shouldn’t have.” Jon reached down to dust at the folds of his cloak, before turning back to the kitchen area, crouching over the pot. “Was there something you needed?”

“O-oh.” It would probably be better to excuse himself, leave Jon to his business. But Jon _had_ asked and, frankly, Martin could use a spot of simple conversation. “Uh, yes, actually? If that’s alright. I was just, um, looking for a pen.”

“A pen.”

“... Yes?”

“And you need a pen because … ?” 

“I … had a bit of an urge to write down a few, um …” Jon _had_ to ask, hadn’t he? “Verses.”

“Verses? You’re a poet? Or a songwriter, perhaps?”

“ _Poet_ , yes, but definitely– but not like a _poet_ poet or anything. I just … scribble some things down, when I find the time. It’s usually rubbish.”

“In my experience, _most_ poetry is rubbish. I’m sure yours is no worse than anyone else’s.”

Martin frowned. If this was an attempt to comfort him, it left much to be desired. Jon didn’t seem to expect an answer, though. With eyes on the boiling water as he stirred the vegetables, he reached into his vest and pulled out an elaborate fountain pen.

“Here.”

Martin took it. “You walk around your home with a pen in your pocket?”

“Yes.” Jon looked up from the pot. “Is … is that strange?”

“ _No!_ No, not at all. It’s …” _Quaint._ “Well, maybe … a little?" _Charming, more than anything._

“I … suppose it’s an old habit from when I was still a researcher.” Jon stared down at the boiling water, a furrow creasing his brows. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“That’s very scholarly of you.” He tucked the pen into his own shirt pocket, then hesitated. Their last attempt at civil conversation had been a disaster, but things were going well so far. “I-I liked your letter. The one with the book recommendations? You’re a brilliant writer.”

“You read that _entire_ thing?”

“O-of course! I even took your advice; started with the fairy tales and everything."

"I– Oh.” Jon blinked. Clearing his throat, he reached down to dust his cloak. “And, uh … and you’re finding it …?”

"It's been _lovely_ ,” said Martin, with as much sincerity as he thought Jon would tolerate. “You were right– the illustrations are gorgeous.”

“I see.” That dark flush had returned to Jon’s face. Before Martin could say anything, though, Jon waved a hand toward the stove. “Well, at the very least, dinner should be ready soon, and since you've thoroughly established that I'm hale and whole, you may as well return to your quarters."

“Actually, I’m feeling a lot better today,” Martin said, casting a wary glance at the pot. “I could– can I help?”

Jon shot him a sharp look. “What’s with that face?” 

“What?”

“You made a face.”

“I– no, I didn’t. I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“You _did_.” Jon’s eyes scoured Martin's face, then he folded his arms. “You _didn’t_ like it, did you? The food I’ve been preparing you.”

“ _No_ , no, I just …” Ah, shit. Martin was never a good liar at the best of times. Jon deserved his honesty, at the very least. “I just think if you let the water come to a full boil, first, the vegetables might cook more ... even?”

“But the meal is completed faster this way.”

“Okay, yes, I suppose that’s a fair point. But also consider that, maybe, it might be nice to eat something that doesn’t feel like,” Martin scrounged for the right words, but what came out was, “biting into a human eyeball?”

“I– you don’t … _surely_ you’re exaggerating?”

A thick blanket of silence settled over them, disturbed only by the pop and crackle of the stove’s fire.

"You're serious." Jon's face collapsed with dismay. Dragging a hand across his face, he let out a hissing sigh through his nose, before gesturing to the stove. “Go on, then. Show me how you’d prefer it.”

Now Martin’s _really_ done it. But Jon merely watched him. Waiting.

“Um …" Martin reached for the heat, desperate not to embarrass either of them further. “Definitely let them simmer. Although, to be perfectly honest, I don’t really like boiled veggies. Too squishy.” As he watched the intensity of the boiling water die down, an idea struck him. “You wouldn’t happen to have a leg of lamb, would you?”

“Lamb?”

“There’s this broth recipe I would make all the time when I worked in the kitchens.”

“Do you honestly think a leg of lamb is so easily obtained by a person in my situation?”

Martin's face warmed. _Obviously_ Jon wouldn't have an expensive meat like lamb at his beck and call while he was sequestered so far into the forest. Even Griffiths had a hard time acquiring it whenever the time came to restock the kitchens. “I … yeah, that’s, uh, yeah. That was a pretty stupid question.”

“I wasn’t–” With a frustrated groan, Jon inclined his head, contrite. “I … should really be minding my tongue better. Please, continue. I might possess other ingredients you require?”

Oh. Martin hadn't been expecting that. It almost sounded like an apology. “Yes! We can just skip the broth; it’ll take too long anyway. We’ll, uh,” he glanced at the pot, overtaken with a sudden, desperate need to do a good job, “we’ll probably need to start a new batch. This lot seems a little bit beyond our help.”

Jon flipped off the stove and removed the pot off the burner. “And?”

“Well, it’s more a peasant dish than anything, so whatever spices and vegetables you have will work just fine.”

“A peasant dish? I thought you said you cooked this regularly for your lord?”

“It’s not much of a peasant dish when you have lamb and truffle oil to work with, is it?”

“Hmm. I suppose not. Well, let’s see what I have from the garden …” From the counter, Jon took hold of one of the vegetables and– 

Martin jumped back. “What the _bloody fucking_ _hell_ is that?”

Jon turned, eyebrows shooting up. “It’s a turnip.”

“That’s _not_ a turnip, that’s a … that’s a _nightmare_.”

Eyebrows raising higher, Jon examined the … the _thing_ in his hand. The closest descriptor Martin could think up would be ‘ _blister_ ’, skin-pink in ways food never should be, and bulbous like a wart. Was that _hair?_ Martin almost retched, and Jon held up a hand, startled.

“I promise it’s safe! Really, it’s just– Yes, I suppose it looks a little alarming, but it’s just an … idiosyncrasy of the flora in this area. It’s an _entirely_ normal turnip.”

That didn’t _sound_ right, but Martin didn’t know enough about the _regional vegetation_ to be sure. Jon’s expression remained earnest and sincere, though, and it didn’t make sense for him to start hurting Martin _now._ “You _eat_ this? This is what you’ve been feeding me?”

“I– yes. My apologies. I suppose I’ve gotten used to their appearance over the years, so I didn’t … I wasn’t thinking …”

The tension stiffening Martin’s shoulders unwound. Well. If Martin _had_ already eaten the hellspawn, then _surely_ the effects would have made their appearance by now? Bearing that in mind, he returned to the stove, training one weary eye to the monstrous vegetable pile. “You really have an entire garden of crops that look like _that?_ ”

“Oh, yes. I can show you, if you’d like. There’s a greenhouse in the back of the estate.”

No, actually, Martin had very little interest in seeing _more_ of those wretched growths. But a mischievous spark had lit Jon’s eyes at the prospect, a stark contrast to his usual icy veneer. Martin couldn’t bring himself to reject him outright lest he chase that brightness away.

He didn’t want to _think_ about what the turnip felt like, though. Perhaps fleshlike and smooth, like the underside of a cat’s belly. A shudder rippled down his spine. “In any case, you’re _definitely_ chopping the vegetables."

With a twitching mouth, Jon reached for the knife. “I suppose that’s only fair. Is there anything else you might require?”

“Just the vegetables for now. Maybe some spices.” Martin adjusted the fire until the blooming heat started to gently sear his front. Or, wait, was he supposed to put the vegetables in _before_ the water started boiling? It had been so long since he cooked for himself or for personal company, it was hard to be certain. “I feel like I should mention, but I’m not … it’s been a while since I’ve worked in the kitchens. I’m probably a little rusty.”

Slicing the turnip into neat, even strips, Jon slid them into a separate pile before grabbing another bulb, turning it in his hands. “It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked anything in earnest. Whenever I _do_ cook, it’s almost entirely out of necessity. I’m afraid I won’t be much help, myself.”

Martin didn’t even want to picture it, being responsible for only you and yourself, cooking alone. Martin _had_ to make this a delicious and satisfying meal– he just had to. “I’m sure between the two of us we can whip up something good.”

A small smile quirked Jon’s lips, so slight it was almost unnoticeable, yet it transformed the weary lines of his face into something younger, almost gentle. A low thrum hummed through Martin’s ears. What would Jon look like if he smiled without apology or worry? What if he _laughed_ , eyes bright and face crinkled with mirth?

_Get a grip._

“You, ah— w-what kind of spices do you have?”

“Oh. Nothing particularly special.” Jon reached up and opened a cabinet. “Salt and pepper and the like. I believe there’s garlic powder here. Does that sound appetising?”

“Yeah, that’ll be perfect.”

Grabbing a handful of cannisters, Jon laid them out along the counter.

They set to work.

When the vegetables had achieved a lucious, tender transluscience, Martin ladled the soup into chipped, ceramic bowls, a touch of pride warming in his chest. Jon stared down at his own bowl, eyes bright with intrigue.

“Would you be amenable to eating in the dining hall this evening?” Jon said with a peculiar, bracing air. “It makes more sense than lugging it all the way back to your rooms.” 

It made Martin pause and, hesitantly, he accepted, and Jon’s posture lost some of its tension. So, they took their seats and tucked in. Martin stirred his portion. It really did look amazing, which kind of shocked him. The image of the _warts_ still lingered in the back of his mind. After the vegetables had been properly cut and cooked, however, they looked … edible. He scooped up a spoonful, chewing slowly, and swallowed. The warmth settled deep in his belly, the flavours dancing on his tongue.

They’d … done a good job. Together. He glanced over to Jon, angling to ask his opinion, and paused. Jon was staring down at his pocket watch, brow deeply furrowed.

“Everything all right?” Martin asked.

“Hmm?” Jon snapped the watch closed. “Yes, yes, everything’s fine.”

“You, uh, have an appointment to keep?” 

“Not as such." Tucking the watch back into his vest, he dug in with far less hesitance than Martin had, chewing with a thoughtful expression. He swallowed, and a small, pleased smile curled his lips. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve had a meal like this.” 

Certainly that meant Jon had enjoyed it, yes? Martin turned the vegetables over and over in the brothy liquid, hoping his expression didn’t betray his burgeoning pleasure at the praise as Jon took another bite.

“You said you would cook for your lord?” Jon asked.

“I started in the kitchens at the castle before I became a server, yeah, but I cooked for my mum and I, back when I lived with her.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“I guess. But it’s not like a hobby or anything. Wouldn’t have time for it, even if it was.”

“ … I see.”

They lapsed back into silence, only the clink of their silverware echoing between them. It sent a familiar trill of anxiety through Martin’s chest. Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw Jon eating– his elbows on the table, occasionally pushing his outrageously messy hair out of the way. Nothing like Barclay’s dinners. And Martin found his shoulders relaxing again. 

“What’s it like?” Jon asked abruptly, making Martin jump. “Working in the castle?” 

The words were working out of his throat before he could think to stop them. “Awful. There’s never any time for yourself. And Lord Barclay is … strict. And a nasty piece of work.” Wait, no– what was he _saying?_ “I remember when I first started working there – it had only been two months at that point – and Barclay was throwing a dinner party for his family. He was telling a story and …” 

Martin’s mouth shut with an audible snap. What the hell was he doing? He absolutely did _not_ want to tell Jon _that_ story. 

But Jon was leaning forward. “What happened?”

“Well–” What? No, _no_ , why couldn’t he _stop?_ “He was telling a story. I don’t remember what it was about, to be honest, but it must have been funny, because I … well, I laughed. Right in the middle of serving. Just a giggle, really.” Martin tried to swallow it all down, but the words kept gushing out. “We’re not supposed to do that– talk to the guests, or do anything other than serve. So he, uh” _–stop, stop, STOP–_ “he tossed his wine in my face. Wouldn’t let me change or anything, since that meant leaving my post before dinner was over. ”

Martin didn’t know what to expect– a snort or a delightfully outraged grin, perhaps. That was how most of the staff had reacted when Martin was forced to keep explaining over and over again how he’d ruined his uniform. But the lines of Jon’s face had gone slack with horror. 

“I-I’m …” Jon pressed a hand to his mouth, eyes huge. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t–” 

“N-no. _No,_ no, it’s, that’s just how things work– that wasn’t even the most–” Martin stopped himself; _why_ had he opened his damn _mouth?_ “Anyway, it’s, uh, it’s really boring, for the most part; we’re usually just dusting or polishing the floors. I’m lucky– it’s not like I have any useful skills or anything, and this way I can send money home to my mum.”

There was a tight set to Jon’s mouth, but Martin just smiled, hoping it didn’t look as desperate as he felt. _Move on. Please. Let it go._

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Jon said, at last, “you’re certainly not alone. The patron of myself and my fellow researchers was …” a vicious frown marred his lips, “… difficult.”

“Your patron?”

“Yes. But I suppose there were upsides. My team …” His mouth curled. “You asked earlier if we investigated love affairs?” 

Martin leaned forward without meaning to, eyes wide.

“Well, there was this one incident, back before I was Head Archivist,” he pressed a hand to his twitching lips, “a fellow researcher and I, er, let ourselves into a residence of interest in order to conduct a follow up. We were in the bedroom when the proprietor returned with his … _escort_ for the evening. It is prudent to know that his wife was out for the evening.” 

“Oh my God.” Martin didn’t know what to be more shocked by– the direction of this peculiar anecdote, or the fact that this prim, reserved man had just admitted to _burglary._ “What did you do?” 

“We hid, of course, but the only space big enough was under the bed. Which, as I’m sure you can guess, was put to vigorous use that evening.” Jon shuddered, rubbing the sleeves of his shirt. “While they were undressing, one of them kicked their pants directly into my face. Tim told Sasha as soon as we returned to the manor and then both proceeded to toss random articles of clothing at me for the remainder of the week. It took everything I had to not strangle them with their own socks.”

Though Jon’s voice carried the bite of annoyance, a gentle smile lit his eyes. It transformed his entire face, softening the harsh angles of his jaw, bringing a vivacity to his skin. Gone was his dour aura; in its place sat a younger man, worry lines smoothed out and eyes turned inward on something only he could see.

Though Martin had tried to imagine it, this gentle transformation, nothing could prepare him for the devastation it wrecked on him. “T-Tim and Sasha?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where– ah, where are they now?”

A sudden, unseen weight pressed Jon’s shoulders down. His gaze flickered back to the bowl in front of him.“They’ve … since passed away.” 

Any sense of remaining joviality splintered– Martin should have known better than to _pry._ “I’m … I’m so sorry–”

“Poetry.” 

Martin blinked, startled at the abrupt change in subject.“What?” 

“I’m … curious as to why you write poetry. I’ve never understood what could drive people to do something like that.” 

“Oh, uh, ... I, I don’t know, actually.” Okay. If Jon wanted to talk about this, distance himself from that aching sadness in his eyes, Martin would indulge him. “I’ve never really thought about it? I just … see something beautiful, and I want to write about it. That sounds cheesy, though, doesn’t it?” 

Jon tilted his head. “What did you want to write about earlier? When you asked for the pen?” 

“J-just … this place, I guess. Being here.”

Jon scoffed, and Martin’s eyebrows bounced up. “What?” 

“You said you want to write about things that are _beautiful_.” 

“I did?” 

“To be perfectly honest, I have no idea what you could be referring to.” With an expansive gesture, he motioned to the dust-choked room. “There’s no need to be coy about it; this place is wretched.”

“Wha– that’s not true!” Jon scoffed, and Martin’s eyes widened. “It’s really not! Look, okay, I suppose it’s a bit, uh, in shambles? And some of the rooms could use a bit of polish– and maybe the kitchens could use some restocking. But those are simple enough fixes, yeah? Otherwise it’s really quite lovely! I mean, just look at the library.” 

“Oh, I _hardly_ think that should be counted. Those books could exist anywhere in the world; it isn’t predicant on _this place_ in particular–” 

“Yes, but it’s _here._ And you said you helped add to it, yeah?” 

That seemed to give Jon pause, and Martin pressed on.

“So, you helped make that library what it is, _here_. I think that should count. Your efforts and all that. You being Head Archivist. Your–” Martin paused, then added, quietly, “–the work you did, with your … your friends.” 

Looking down at his beverage, a thoughtful furrow creased Jon’s brow. 

“I’m sorry,” said Martin, earning himself an odd look. “I don’t mean to tell you how to feel about this place or anything. You … you seem like you have a lot of bad memories here.” Lifting his head, Jon considered him, curious, and Martin swallowed. “But it seems like you have a few good ones, too?” 

“I … suppose.”

“Well, that’s the sort of thing I try to write about, I guess. You know, the idea that even the things that seem the most wretched or unlovable have, you know … something to love about them, I guess? Something beautiful?” He laughed, scratching his chin. “Now I just sound pretentious, don’t I?”

Silence. Every second that passed made Martin more and more sure that he had been too bold, bared too much of his heart. Stupid. _Stupid._ He opened his mouth, an apology already at his lips for overstepping, but when Martin looked up, Jon was already staring at him, expression split open like a raw wound. But their eyes met and Jon startled, shuttering his expression, but it was too late for that. Martin had seen everything.

“The greenhouse,” blurted Jon, rising to his feet.

“I– the what?”

“The greenhouse. You wanted to see the vegetable garden, correct?”

“Oh, um, well–”

“Of course. Please follow me.” 

Martin was _not_ , in fact, interested in seeing the vegetable garden right at that moment, but Jon was already hurrying towards the doors and Martin couldn’t do anything but scramble after him.

They walked together, the nervous energy bouncing in Jon’s gait slowly relaxing the closer they got to the far end of the manor. Jon opened the estate’s doors to the back gardens, and the crisp autumn breeze washed over them, filling Martin with quaint nostalgia of walking down forest paths of yellowing trees. Dry, brittle leaves cracked under the soles of their shoes as they walked closer and closer to the large, glass panelled building at the far back of the clearing. 

“Here we are,” Jon said, gesturing Martin towards the inner path. “I think it would be best to deliver a proper warning this time. The harvest can be ... a little diverse.” 

Martin’s stomach filled with dread just as much as it filled with a sickening curiosity as Jon led them further inside. Jon didn’t have to point it out– Martin’s jaw dropped. 

“How does something like this even _happen?_ ” 

“I'm not entirely certain myself.” Contrast to Martin’s disgust, Jon’s voice held a note of _actual_ delight. “I can’t claim credit for this particular growth, but they're fascinating, aren't they?"

 _Fascinating?_ What a word to use. More like a scene from a nightmare, with roots gnarled around the crops in a choking, almost self-destructive display. Martin crouched down, fingers brushing what might have been a pumpkin and what also might have been a human head bleached by the sun. Its face contorted with an almost human agony, looking just as unhappy to see Martin as Martin was to see it. “Well, you’re not taking these to the markets anytime soon, that’s for sure.” 

“All Hallows Eve is almost here; I could always sell them as decorations.” 

_You’ll be burned as a witch first_ , Martin thought privately, but Jon’s lips twisted upwards, as if hearing his waspish thought. He then reached into his vest and pulled out that same pocket watch from before.

“Well, you’ve seen it and it’s getting late– you should return to your quarters. I’ll take care of the dishes–”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Martin said, rising to his feet. “Please, I can take care of it.”

“You are frightfully eager to shame me as a host, do you know that?”

Martin had already braced himself for a flinch, but paused. Jon didn’t _sound_ frustrated– in fact, when he glanced back to Martin, a small smile curled his lips. Still so slight, still barely noticeable, but it was there. And Martin let himself relax.

It’s okay. Jon wasn't berating him. He was just … _bantering_.

They made their way out of the greenhouse when a side near the entrance made him pause. Near the back panel of the room was a small plot of dirt, same as the others scattered around the interior. But, unlike the other empty plots, _this_ one was brimming with a scattering of dead rose bushes. 

“What’s all this?”

Jon turned around, confused, before his eyes landed on the plot. He grimaced, though he hid his reaction quickly. “My rather poor attempt to maintain life.”

“You like to garden?”

“I … found it enjoyable, yes. For a time. But it quickly became apparent I’m rather talentless, in that regard.”

“It can’t be _that_ bad.” Martin stepped closer to the bushes. “You know, there’s actually a garden centre in the city. I’m pretty sure they’d have everything you’d need; seeds, high grade soil, a few learners’ books, if you don’t have any already.”

The lines around Jon’s eyes tightened. “You’re very optimistic– but some things are just a lost cause.”

Oh. Well, that seemed a bit much, didn’t it? They _were_ just flowers. But Jon was already turning away. 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

Another topic to be avoided.

They had just reached the stone steps leading up to the estate when the crack of a twig pricked Martin’s ears. A squirrel, or some other woodland creature. He looked around the clearing, more out of a reflex than any real interest in finding something. His eyes, though, landed on a dark shape, larger than anything he expected to see, and his pulse thrummed with panic. What the bloody hell was _that?_ Then, his eyes adjusted to the late afternoon shadows.

_“Phillipa!”_

At the far end of the estate’s grounds, Phillipa stood between two trees, tossing her head at the sound of his cry. Martin hurried toward her, flooded with both embarrassment at his initial panic and a staggering relief. “Oh my God– where did you– How–?” 

Phillipa had no answers beyond a nicker, but Martin brought her close regardless, gently running his hand up and down her forehead. She bobbed her neck, the metal of her reins clinking together. Oh, Jesus, the _reins._ “You must have felt awful, carrying these around for so long.” 

“I'll be damned,” Jon mused as Martin took the bit out of her mouth. When Martin threw a glance over his shoulder, Jon was noticeably cautious several feet back. 

“She doesn’t bite,” Martin said. Jon’s face flushed, and he looked away with a surly glare.

“She certainly could have fooled me, considering the procession of our … _introduction._ ” He crossed his arms. “I’ve never liked horses; it’s outrageous such a skittish animal can be capable of inflicting so much damage.” 

“She was only skittish because of that fog. Normally, she’s _much_ more agreeable. And besides– have you considered that she’s got a really soft nose?” 

“What, pray tell, does that have to do with anything?” 

Martin hummed, scratching just under her jaw and smiling as she tilted her head into his hand. “See for yourself. You can give her a pat, if you’d like.” 

Jon shot Martin a glare sharp enough to peel skin, but began making his way over anyway, hesitancy sluicing off his body in thick waves. In an echo of that morning in the fog, he raised a hand. Okay. Yes, good. This was good. 

That was, until Phillipa bobbed her chin with a knicker, ears tilting backwards, and Jon flinched away, snatching his hand back.

 _“See!_ Did you _see_ that? She was going to bite me!” 

With some difficulty, Martin kept a straight face. “She was _not_.” One hand tangled in Phillipa’s mane, he reached out to Jon with the other. “Come on, let me help–” 

Jon glanced down at his outstretched hand, one brow raised, and although Martin’s face warmed, he held his hand steady in the air. After all, Martin _knew_ Phillipa. Sure, she could be a bit ornery at times, but with a gentle touch, she was as receptive and affectionate as anything. Jon just needed a little help to see that. This was something Martin _knew_ he could do for Jon.

Glaring first at Phillipa, then at Martin, Jon grumbled under his breath. But, despite all that he placed his hand within Martin’s.

Forcing himself not to linger on it, Martin lifted both their hands and pressed them over Phillipa’s nose. 

Tension coursed through Jon’s arm, potent enough that even Martin could sense it in his stiff fingers. Phillipa’s ears twitched, but her breathing remained steady, and the effect seemed to calm Jon more than anything. At last, with one slow breath, Jon relaxed, thumb moving in slow circles on the slope of her face.

“Well, there it is,” Jon murmured. “Her nose _is_ quite soft.”

“Told you.”

Jon breathed an abortive chuckle, a dull colour rising to his face. His hand was small underneath Martin’s, soft and warm– but as Martin pulled away, he noticed something. 

A scar. Even more twisted and gnarled than the one on his other hand. Burnt and deep and badly healed. What all had this poor man gone through? Laced with so many old scars, inside and out? Barely giving himself time to consider his actions, Martin squeezed Jon’s hand, light as a feather, before pulling away entirely. 

“We can go back inside now,” said Martin. “If you like.”

Jon stared at his own hand, eyes foggy. Then, he drew in a shuddering breath, hand falling back to his side. 

“You need to leave.” 

“What?”

Jon’s mouth was pressed in a thin line. “You’ve made a suitable recovery and now that your horse has returned, you’ll have no trouble making your way back. You should leave. Now.” 

“I– J-Jon–” 

But Jon was walking away, leaving Martin with the shadows creeping close. 

What was it that Martin had done _wrong?_ Things had been– _good_. Jon had been teasing him, laughing around him. _Trusting_ him, at least in regards to handling Phillipa. If Martin knew how he’d messed things up, maybe he could fix it, apologise–

He lowered his hand to his side.

What was he _doing?_ He had recovered from his injury and had the means of returning to Barclay’s castle– he should be _jumping with_ _joy_ right now. Perhaps he might have been, this time yesterday, or even this morning, but now … he'd thought …

His grip tightened in Phillipa’s mane, face burning with embarrassment and shame. It all had to come to an end, eventually. He'd just wished … maybe … 

He had been letting himself get carried away. _Again._

Martin drew Phillipa across the clearing, reaching for her saddle to tie her to a post so that he could return to his rooms– and he paused, staring at the sky.

Fat snowflakes had begun falling from a cloudy overcast. Where had _that_ come from? 

Funny. It _had_ become rather cold, hadn’t it? He hadn’t even realised until now.

A shiver sinking through his body, Martin hurried inside. 

In the bedroom, he changed back into his server uniform and cloak, leaving the soft, expensive clothes laid out on the bed. He’d gotten used to them over the past few days. His dress shirt squeezed tighter than ever.

And … that was it. Martin didn’t have anything to pack. There was no reason to remain in these rooms; if anything, he needed to move quickly– he should leave before it became too dark. 

Still, he lingered. He pulled out the pen Jon had leant him. In the end, he hadn’t gotten a chance to write anything down. He placed it on the end table, next to the books, and he brushed his fingers along the leather bindings. The letters from Jon were still there. 

Would Jon mind if he kept the letters, where Jon had so carefully written Martin’s name? As a keepsake? Something to prove that this hadn’t been a dream? Martin had so few things to treasure. So few things to show that someone had thought of him, once– considered him, in some capacity.

He pocketed the letters before he could think too much. Jon had written them for _him,_ after all. It had his name on it and everything, in such beautiful cursive. Surely, it wouldn’t be wrong to let himself have this one thing …?

Reality was sinking into the marrow of his bones. He’d have to go back to the castle. He’d have to _beg_ , on hands and knees, to keep his employment, his means of living, _knowing_ that there were so many more willing and more capable of taking his place– who would make less mistakes, who wouldn't trigger half as many headaches. He might … he might have to start looking for another job. Face the sting of rejection again and again as he proved himself to be utterly without any useful talent. He’d have to tell _Mum_ …

He took a deep breath. There was no use agonising over these sorts of thoughts. Martin needed to _move._

When he returned to Phillipa outside, the wind had started picking up, and Martin was trying to ignore his twisting stomach. He took his time checking the integrity of her saddle, making sure her bit was comfortably fastened, and that the footholds were at a proper distance, keeping one eye on the front entrance until, at last, Jon appeared. 

Martin’s heart soared – _he came to say goodbye, he didn’t let me leave before saying goodbye_ – though it deflated just as quickly at Jon’s stony expression. 

“Thank you,” Martin said, voice soft and uncertain. “For everything.” 

“Of course.” 

Short. Curt. Martin turned to Phillipa, biting his lip. A voice in his head told him it was time to be on his way, just _go_ , stop drawing things out, but he took a deep, shuddering breath. Summoned all of his courage. 

“You know,” he started, trying for a tentative smile, “servers get days off; every third Sunday, usually. Provided I still, um, have a job, maybe I could … would you like me to come down sometime and visit–?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Jon was staring hard at the ground. Martin closed his eyes– it hurt to swallow. 

“R-right. Sorry, I, um … I should probably just … get going, then.”

Still, Jon wouldn’t meet his eyes, and, still, Martin waited. What for, he had no idea– was he truly masochistic enough to wait around until Jon told him, in no uncertain terms, that Martin wasn’t welcome here? But perhaps that was what Martin needed to get it through his thick head. It always came to that for him.

A sharp gust of wind sliced through his cloak, and he shivered. Whatever he was waiting for wasn’t happening. It was time to go. He took hold of Phillipa’s saddle, bracing himself, and– 

“Wait.” 

Jon took a step forward, hand half raised. He backed up just as quickly, one hand gripping the clasp of his cloak.

“It’s late,” he said. “It’ll be dark soon and … and this storm is picking up rather quickly. You …” He winced, and took a deep breath. “It’s … probably safer if you stayed one more night, not risk another injury. You should leave in the morning.” 

Martin was frozen to the spot, heart pounding, afraid that if he moved too fast, spoke too suddenly, Jon would take it all back. But Jon said nothing.

“Thank–” Martin started, but Jon had turned around, cloak billowing behind him as he returned to the manor. 

The wind was picking up, buffeting Martin’s loose clothing. He remained in the clearing for a long time, staring at the door where Jon had fled. He didn’t come back.

Curled up in bed, the gusts of wind battering the windows, Martin’s eyes bored holes into the ceiling, kept awake both by the sound of the storm and his own tumultuous thoughts. He _should_ have been agonising about his delayed return to the castle. All he could think about, though, was Jon– the misery on his face as he offered Martin one more night to stay.

Martin sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as he turned onto his side. 

This was his fault. All because he hadn’t gone back to the castle after that strange encounter with the nobleman, all those days ago. What a silly thing to run away from. Instead, he’d gone and got himself hurt; inflicted the burden of his care on a complete stranger, one who so clearly wished to be left alone. 

_My fault._

At least he got to have one more night in this soft bed. One more morning to be himself, and not another servant. Try as he might to savour it, though, he could only think of Jon, and that distant plea lurking behind his eyes. 

He dreamt of long hallways and closed doors.

He found Jon in the foyer the next morning, facing the large, cracked windows. The storm had grown into a wall of pure white, wind buffeting against the manor’s neglected panels; Martin could barely make out the trees in the clearing. Hesitant, he approached Jon and stood by him, unsure if he should say anything, or if silence was better. 

Jon made the decision for him.

“This is my fault,” he said, resigned in a way that made Martin’s chest _ache._ “I should have just let you go yesterday.” 

“You were just doing what you thought was best.” Jon’s lips twisted, skepticism seeping through every pore. What could Martin even say to provide comfort when it was Martin’s presence that caused so much misery in the first place? “Who could have predicted something like _this?_ Do you have even the _faintest_ as to what's causing it?”

Jon’s eyes reflected the swirling winds as he stared into the frozen abyss, and he let out a sigh, shoulders sagging. “I have no idea.” 

They stood together in silence, watching the snow rage, cutting them off from the forest– from the rest of the world. 

“Make yourself at home,” said Jon, words thick with despair, and he left Martin in front of the chilled, frost-bitten windows, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [@hello-archivist's](https://hello-archivist.tumblr.com/) art inspired by this chapter [here!](https://hello-archivist.tumblr.com/post/632082440940290048/for-athina-blaine)
> 
> Check out [@chalroe's](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/) art based on this chapter [here!](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/post/635056967460716545/click-on-image-for-bettet-resolution-commission)


	3. The Empty Corridors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the MoMM Spotify playlist [here!](https://athina-blaine.tumblr.com/post/641742867809943552/the-monster-of-magnus-manor-a-playlist-by-athina)

Martin could only watch as the storm raged on.

He'd been hopeful, at first, that the bad weather would pass by the end of that morning, but the wind continued to howl, buffeting the manor as if God himself were trying to smash the panelling. By mid-afternoon, his faint optimism had faded, and the storm continued roaring well into the evening without any changes.

The second day was more of the same.

As was the third.

And the fourth …

Right.

It appeared he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon after all.

But it didn’t have to be _all_ bad. While his more urgent problems still weighed on his mind, he was getting an awful lot of reading done– more than he's ever had the chance to. He didn't have to rise with the sun, back aching, fingers blistering from work the night before. He woke up refreshed and well-rested, even with his strange dreams.

So things could have been worse.

It was hard to enjoy that, though, when you had no one to enjoy it _with_.

Martin shied away from the thought. Did that sound entitled? The last thing he wanted was to impose his company on someone, especially someone clearly longing for solitude.

It all just felt so ... deliberate. Martin hadn’t seen Jon since that first morning. Surely, even considering the size of the manor, the two of them should have stumbled over each other at some point? The library, the kitchen? _Somewhere?_ But the only reason Martin knew Jon was still in the manor at all was the tray of food that appeared like clockwork every morning, afternoon, and evening. The man himself spirited away before Martin could so much as open the door and say hello.

It was difficult not to take personally. Jon wanted him gone, Martin knew that– but it was rubbing salt in an open wound if the man was taking steps to avoid Martin entirely.

Maybe he was blowing this out of proportion. It _had_ only been a few days at this point, and the manor was awfully large. More likely, Jon just wasn’t taking him into consideration as he went about his daily routine, and they happened to keep missing each other. 

This was how Martin tried reassuring himself as he took a seat in the foyer, dropping a bundle of books on an abandoned table. While the library’s alcove had the best view, the plush velvet of the foyer’s lounger proved a far more comfortable reading perch.

 _That_ was why he'd taken to reading in the foyer. Not because Jon would have to pass through this area to deliver the dinner tray. Not at all. Because that would be …

Martin swallowed, the collar of his shirt pressing tight against his throat.

… a little bit desperate, to be honest.

 _If he wanted to see you, he would_ , a voice said as he opened to his bookmark. _You haven’t made yourself difficult to find._

He shushed it, settling deeper into the lounger. He was only reading after all; Jon’s recommendations, at that. That wasn’t wrong, was it?

_No, it isn’t. How very convenient for you._

Martin sank down until the lounger threatened to swallow him, guilt dragging at him. No. He wasn’t doing anything wrong ... _technically._ But that was a poor excuse at the best of times.

He waited, eyes flitting between the pages of his book and the corner of the hallway. He could be honest with himself; at this point, he _was_ getting desperate. He couldn’t take much more of these long stretches of marble hallways, nothing but his footsteps and the howling wind drilling into his ears. He couldn’t take much more of this … emptiness. How did Jon bear it?

An hour passed, then another. It was only after looking up for the hundredth time that he realised he couldn’t recall a single thing he’d read. Jon’s own recommendation and Martin wasn’t even paying attention to the bloody thing! Face hot, he flipped back several pages, trying to find the last paragraph he was _sure_ he had processed– when Jon appeared.

Martin’s spine snapped straight, the book nearly tumbling out of his hands, but Jon didn’t notice him at all. He glided right past Martin, cloak fluttering behind him, eyes downcast on the dinner tray.

Oh. Oh no. What did Martin do now? It was one thing for Jon to notice him as he came down the hallway, and for Martin to then strike up a casual conversation; it was another to shout after him, clamouring for his attention like a child.

Jon was almost out of the foyer. Martin was running out of time.

“Jon?”

Jon yelped, the tray jumping in his hands, and Martin covered his mouth, face blazing. The cavernous space of the foyer magnified every sound– his voice had echoed like the crack of a whip.

 _“Sorry,_ sorry, I just, um …” Dammit, what now? After two hours of fake-reading a book, he hadn’t thought of anything clever and interesting to say?

“ _What_ are y– is there _any_ particular reason you’re out here?”

It was so much harder to face that chill in Jon’s voice, now that Martin knew what it sounded like soft and gently amused. “Just, you know–” he held up his book like a shield “–getting some reading done.”

Jon’s eyes flicked first to the book, then back to Martin. “I ... see. I have your meal prepared. Would you prefer to eat it here?”

“Oh, uh, yes. Thank you.”

Jon placed the tray on the small table and Martin waited for him to inquire about the book ( _"–I see you’re almost finished with Kinsey, what do you think?” “Oh! It’s really good, thank you so much for recommending it to me! Would you like to take a seat and maybe we could talk about it some more?” “Yes, Martin, that sounds lovely, tell me what you thought about chapter 3, personally I–_ ” _)_

But Jon straightened and turned back toward the hallway. “I hope it’s to–”

“ _Wait,_ wait.” He couldn’t just let Jon walk away, not without … _something._ “I-I was thinking, actually, that, uh,” struggling for inspiration, he glanced down at the tray, “that you don’t have to keep bringing me food.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, well, I’m feeling much better. Definitely all patched up by now, and I know my way around the kitchen and everything. So, yeah, you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“Ah.” A soft flush dusted Jon’s face. “My apologies. I tried to make something more palatable–”

“Oh! No, no, it’s not that at all. I just …”

“I will, of course, abide by your preference. If you’ll excuse me …”

“Do you want to read together sometime? I-I started Kinsey, and I think you’re right about his writing style, and I was _–_ I was wondering if you wanted to talk about … it … ”

He trailed off under Jon's unblinking stare. Was this what an ant felt like, trapped under a glass panel? But then Jon's eyes, filled with light curiosity, flitted to the small stack of books. A swell of hope lifted Martin's stomach–

Jon held up a hand. “Please, I wouldn’t want to disturb you. Carry on.”

And he swept out of the foyer, footsteps clicking against the tiled floors before fading.

Martin sighed, his shoulders sagging. Picking up his tea, he took a small sip.

Best savour it.

Alright. So Jon wanted to be alone. Martin had _known_ that already; it was a little embarrassing he hadn't backed off before now. Jon didn't owe him his company just because he had no choice but to board Martin in his home _–_ not unless he wanted to throw Martin out into a blizzard. Besides, Martin had plenty to entertain himself with in this big, hulking estate– things that _didn’t_ include bothering Jon.

But it wasn’t long before it became obvious that wasn’t really true.

“You know, I think I’m really starting to miss working in the castle.”

Phillipa looked on from across the aisle as Martin speared a patch of clean hay into her trough. It had been a relief to learn that the feeding hay Jon had on reserve was _normal_ and not some ... freaky collection of worms or something. Phillipa was much luckier than him in that regard.

“Yeah, working there was stressful,” he continued, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead, “God knows with the way Griffiths shouted at us all the time. But at least I was doing something, you know? Keeping my hands busy. I mean, sure, it was mostly grunt work. Anyone could have done it, but _I_ did it. I was making _someone’s_ day a little bit easier. I wasn’t …”

The words caught in his throat. Blast it, he _really_ needed to move on already.

“I just wish I knew if he was angry with me. Then I could apologise, right? Make it up to him somehow?”

Phillipa butted his shoulder with the blunt of her nose, and Martin startled. He reached up to pat her, running his thumb over the white stripe running down her face.

"Suppose I can just make my own work. Roll up my sleeves, do a little dusting, maybe? Pluck some weeds? I mean, it's only fair. Not like I'm paying rent or anything. My mum always said idle hands were the devil's playground, or something."

And then, maybe, Jon would see Martin could be helpful. Useful.

Maybe they could talk again.

“What do you think?”

She lipped at his hair, and he sighed. At least she was a good listener– he’d met few conversational partners as willing to put up with him as Phillipa. It was time to start getting inside now, though– didn’t want to risk an encounter with _John, the dog._

A sudden, sharp pain exploded in his ear; Martin cried out, jumping back. Phillipa had nibbled on the soft shell of his ear.

“ _You–”_ he started, cradling the side of his face. Phillipa lifted her head with him, continuing to chew, content– probably on a bit of his ear. “You’re a _very_ naughty horse, do you know that?”

She snorted in his face.

It was decided, then; he’d start with a little tidying in Jon’s greenhouse. Pluck some weeds, clear the pathways of debris, however else he could make busy. It was an easier task than _dusting,_ at any rate, not with the current state of the manor. His sinuses wouldn’t survive.

Besides, Jon harvested the vegetables roughly every two or three days, so it might make for a nice surprise, coming in to see the space neat and tidied. 

The kitchen cupboard had an old cloth and broom in it, so, after lunch, he ventured outside. Harsh winds pummelled him from all sides; he’d known it’d be a trek, but he hadn’t expected it would be this _brutal._ The chill cut right through the fabric of his cloak. Even though the walk was short, by the time he closed the panelled door behind him, his body was shaking with fierce tremors, the tips of his fingers and ears burning.

Rubbing some warmth back into his extremities, he hung his cloak and readjusted his grip on the broom’s handle. Might as well get the easy part out of the way first. He’d always liked sweeping. Easier than polishing or mopping, anyway. Less back strain.

Dirt and dead leaves littered the path, likely from the freaky vegetable patch; he swept it all into a tight pile in the dustpan. Quick and easy to complete, yes, but as Martin surveyed the clean floors, he let himself savour a pinprick of pride. It was nice to be working again. At least he was making a difference, even if it was small.

Now, the plots.

Rolling up his sleeves, he crouched down next to the plot closest to him, settling on the cold floor. It'd been ages since anything had been planted here, the dry and dusty soil crusting under his fingernails as he plucked out twigs and cracked roots. As he stood to move to the second plot, a jolt shot through his knees.

Two weeks of comfortable beds and skipping on proper hard work and he’d already become soft. Not good.

The second plot took even less time than the first. He settled back on his haunches, dusting off his hands. This wasn’t taking as long as he'd assumed it would, but that made sense. The only plot that needed any _real_ tending was the one with the dead rose bushes, but it didn’t seem right to weed them without Jon’s permission. If Martin could ask–

A loud slam. Martin jumped, whirling around.

Jon was leaning against the entryway, eyes closed, letting out a slow, relieved breath. Snow clung to his cloak and dampened the curls of his hair. Martin's heart thrummed with anxiety– he hadn't thought Jon would come here now.

Before he could think to do anything, Jon's eyes opened, locking on Martin. Martin could only sit there, frozen, as Jon stiffened.

Martin lifted a shaky hand. “H-hello.”

“What on _earth_ are you doing here?”

“I-I just, I thought I could help tidy things up? Um, you know, make myself useful. I was thinking of maybe dusting, next.”

The long sigh Jon let out through his nose was riddled with exasperation and impatience, and Martin barely stopped himself from curling up with embarrassment. “Martin, please. Despite the circumstances, you’re still my _guest–_ there’s no need for this.”

“No, no, I really don’t mind–”

“I _promise_ the estate doesn’t need your attention.” Carving a path to the vegetable patch, Jon crouched down, reaching for the stem of one of the radishes. “Exercise some manner of restraint and take this time for yourself.”

 _It’s really no trouble,_ Martin wanted to say– was desperate for it, actually. _I just need something to keep myself busy. Please let me do this. I need this._

But Jon had made himself clear. He didn’t need, or want, Martin’s help.

Martin stood. Hesitated, just a moment. But Jon had moved on to the eggplants. He didn’t look back as Martin approached the greenhouse door, opened it, and shut it behind him.

How could Martin have been so _stupid?_ Why hadn’t he _asked_ if Jon wanted him futzing around the greenhouse? Unbelievable. His brain had gone as soft as his body if he thought a stunt like that would make anything better.

 _Take this time for yourself_.

Yes, well, there was such a thing as taking _too much time_ for yourself. Martin was just about getting sick of it, to be honest.

At least he had Phillipa to keep himself distracted. God knew what he’d have done without her.

With a grunt, he readjusted his grip on the blankets bundled in his arms. He’d found them shoved in the back of his wardrobe and figured they could be put to better use in the padding of Phillipa’s stable, even with how well insulated they proved to be. Besides, the old goat would get crabby if left to her own devices for too long, and he’d certainly pay for it later. Wretched thing.

He barely managed to open the stable doors wide enough to fit, winds threatening to blow the blankets right out of his arms. He slipped inside, foot holding open the door so it didn’t knock him down. With his luck, he’d knock himself out and freeze to death.

He secured his grip again and looked up–

And stopped.

Phillipa was lipping at Jon’s hand, eating a piece of carrot right out of his palm. She leaned down for another, and Jon _chuckled_. “Are you even chewing? You promised me you’d chew, you know.”

In the freezing air, a tendril of warmth wound in Martin’s chest, like a cat curling up for a nap. Oh. Oh, that was–

_BANG!_

The door slammed shut behind him, buffeted by the force of the wind. Jon flinched back, eyes landing on Martin, and Martin held up the blankets in apology.

“S-sorry!” he said. “Hello there.”

“Afternoon.”

Jon’s eyes were fixed some point on the hay strewn floor. Martin waited for him to dismiss him, or hurry out the stables, gaze averted. But Jon only ran his hand over Phillipa’s nose.

 _Don’t say something stupid._ “Um. You two seem like you’re getting along well.”

"Yes, well …" Jon broke off a second piece of the carrot, which Phillipa once again plucked straight from the centre of his palm. "I had some leftovers. Would've been a shame to let them go to waste."

“Oh! Yes. Of course.”

Despite the awkward air, Jon continued to feed Phillipa and Martin stood there, arms bulked with blankets. Should … should he say something? He cleared his throat, kicking at the bristles of hay on the ground. “I know what you mean, though. We’d have leftovers all the time back at the castle, couldn’t turn around without tripping over them some days. Barclay always ordered us to toss them, but sometimes Jefferies would let us sneak a few out for a nibble.”

“Jefferies?”

"Head chef. Piece of work, but he's nice when it comes down to it. Tries to cut us some slack when he can."

“Does he, now?” Breaking off another piece, Jon glanced over at Martin– met his eyes, and Martin’s heart skipped at the shock. “And here I was beginning to think everyone in this castle of yours was heartless.”

“Oh! No, _no_ , not at all!” What had given Jon that impression? Just how much had Martin been complaining about it since getting here? “I-it’s just that Barclay’s got really high standards, and nobody wants to make a mistake. Don’t want to bring anything down on their heads, so …”

“Didn’t you have anyone you could turn to for help?”

“Well, there was Jefferies, I suppose. He was more my boss than anything, though, so we could only ever talk about work. Griffiths is responsible for the servers and apprentices, but, I don’t know, I’d always feel like I was bothering him. Charles would say–”

Martin stopped. Swallowed.

“Charles?”

“Yeah. He’s my …” he stared down at the blankets in his arms, “… my friend.”

"I see." Cleaning his hands on his cloak, Jon pulled away. "Well. I'm glad you have someone, at least. It sounds like an awful place."

Martin couldn’t conjure a reply before Jon swept past him, and was gone. He took a deep breath. Walked up to the stable, balancing the blankets on the stall door. Phillipa lipped at his sleeve. He smiled.

“Sorry. Fresh out.”

Martin decided, that night, he would be making dinner for two.

It was impulsive, he knew, even as he laid the pot and his ingredients on the counter. It was impulsive, and stupid, and over the line. But the image of Jon, amusement lining his face as Phillipa bullied him for more carrots, refused to leave him in peace.

_I’m glad you have someone._

Maybe Jon wasn’t angry at him. Maybe there was some kind of misunderstanding that could be cleared up. And maybe they could figure it out together over a nice hot meal and amiable conversation, just like last time.

So, yes. Perhaps a bit impulsive. But it had been nearly eleven days now of nothing but quiet, echoing corridors. He just had to try one more time.

It would be worth it if he got to see Jon smile again. Watch the stress ease from his face, faint lines of laughter crinkling the corner of his eyes. Maybe Martin could show him things didn’t have to be like this. They didn’t have to be …

With a sigh, Martin scooped up the tomatoes and tossed them in the pot. The fruit had felt just as flesh-like and silken as he'd feared, and it took everything he could not to shudder as he peeled it.

He glanced over his shoulder as he cooked, the thought of Jon ambushing him weighing heavy in the back of his mind. But, as he sliced and cooked the remainder of the vegetables, his work went unimpeded. Good. This whole thing might work better as a nice little surprise, anyway. Martin loved being surprised, or at least loved the idea of it, and after all the meals Jon had made for Martin, it was only fair that Martin was responsible for one this time. Even if the sight of sliced flesh-eggplants made his toes curl.

He _had_ to bring normal food to the manor, once all this was over. A nice, normal tomato for Jon, as a gift.

And … _voila_. Removing the pot from the heat, he took a deep breath, inhaling its appetising scent. His stomach grumbled, and he let himself savour the satisfaction of a meal well cooked. It was one of the only recipes he knew off the back of his hand, so hopefully, Jon would be impressed, too.

Covering the dish, he took a deep breath.

Now came the tricky part; finding Jon.

Yes, perhaps making dinner for two when one of the parties was a phantom, lurking off in the shadows, was a bit foolish. But he hadn’t gone _looking_ for Jon yet; maybe he wouldn’t be that difficult to find. Worse came to worst, he’d just save the rest for Jon to eat later. It would freeze well enough in the manor’s underground icebox, so there was no need to worry about it.

He checked the foyer first. A bit optimistic, but it was as good a starting point as any. But it remained as empty and dusty as when Martin had last used it.

Next, the library. Nothing.

He braved the outside to check the greenhouse. Still no sign of Jon.

The stable? Phillipa had no answers for him there.

Moving from area to area, he checked the various bedrooms and studies that lined his path. Maybe he’d get lucky? He could try calling to Jon, God knew his voice carried well enough in these spacious hallways, but the thought of hearing his own voice echoing back at him kept him quiet. What an obnoxious thing to do.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Search as he might, he couldn’t find any trace of Jon.

He returned to the foyer. It was still empty; silly of him to be so disappointed by that.

He sighed. This was _pointless_. Dinner was cold by now.

Martin was making his way back to the kitchen when he brushed past the library again. He stopped.

What about that one door in the far back? The one he’d accidentally uncovered so long ago, with the brass handle? In all of his wanderings during the past two weeks, Martin had never thought to check it.

What were the odds that Jon was in there, of all places?

His feet tugged him forward– once, twice– before pulling him into the library, and down the aisle.

This wasn't a good idea. Jon had lashed out horribly the last time he'd stumbled on it, and Martin hadn't even known this door was off-limits. Now? Martin would be deliberately disrespecting his wishes if he went there.

The door stood quiet in its dark, dusty corner, handle glimmering. His fingers twitched, and he squeezed his hand into a fist.

It would only take a moment. He wouldn’t snoop around– just give Jon a shout, see if he was there, and leave. It probably wasn’t anything that important, anyway; just another study room, maybe even a storage closet.

He reached for the handle, part of him braced for Jon to jump out of the shadows, spitting fury. Again. He almost wished he would; it would make this easier. Martin only wanted them to enjoy a meal together.

But Jon didn’t appear.

With a light tug, Martin pulled the door open. No lock. That was probably a good sign, right? Whatever was in here, it wasn’t _so_ important that Jon felt the need to keep it locked up. Right?

_It would be fine._

Inside stretched a long hallway, lined with candles, and Martin’s jaw dropped. How in the _bloody hell_ did the manor have room for a place like _this?_

It stretched on and on, endless, and a curl of anxiety slithered into his stomach. This reminded him of his dreams, serving Barclay pieces of himself. But here, the candles were lit; that _must_ mean Jon was here, right?

His feet dragged him forward again. Everything was fine– _I won’t nose around, I won’t break anything, I’ll just pop in and out, promise–_ but his pulse beat an erratic pace the further he ventured down the hall. The candlelight jumped in the corner of his eyes, casting strange shadows, and he flinched back. But nothing was ever there.

What was with the air in this place? It was … _heavy,_ pressing down on his shoulders. It reminded him of the air in Barclay's hall during dinner as he stood tucked away in a corner, swaying on tired feet and hoping to God no one noticed.

The hallway ended in a room full of bookshelves, and while it couldn't have been anywhere near the size of the library, the light from the candles distorted the room's edges, making it impossible to know its true size. He sucked in a sharp breath and pressed a startled cough into his elbow. The air tasted old and musty. Gone off, like slimy film over water.

Was this just an extension of the library? If so, why was it sectioned off way back here, behind a boring little door and a creepy hallway? Why had Jon been so furious at him for approaching it? And what would Jon be doing in such a dour place, anyway?

The light of the candles only stretched so far, so he unhooked one from its perch, approaching a random shelf. He’d promised himself he’d give Jon a shout and _leave_ , but the oppressive atmosphere gripped his throat with icy fingers. He didn’t dare disturb the silence.

The collection here didn’t appear anything like that of the library. They weren’t even books– they were binders, immaculately kept. Martin peered at the closest one, squinting at what was inside.

Parchment paper.

 _Of course_. Martin could have hit himself. _Head Archivist_.

These were Jon’s archives.

The binders nearest to him were marked _R-Z_. 

_Statement of William Richards_ , one of them read, _regarding an unusual nighttime encounter._

_My wife died four years ago. Amazing, how time flies past you like that. One minute, you’re having dinner together, having a chat about church gossip, and the next, you’re waking up to a cold, empty bed._

_She didn’t just die, though. I know it. And I know it sounds insane. Believe me, everyone in town already feels that way about it. But I think you might know what I’m talking about. Because she didn’t just die. Something–_

A hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his startled gasp. The file tumbled to the ground, pages scattering across the floor.

“What the _bloody hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

Had … had Martin been reading the letter out loud? What would possess him to do something so absurd? But the question shrivelled up under the blazing fury in Jon’s eyes. “I– I–”

Jon snatched the candle away from him with a brutal snap, cutting him off. “I gave you _explicit_ instructions to avoid this place and you still decide to let yourself in? What were you _thinking?_ ”

“I– I’m sorry, I just …” His excuses died. They all sounded so ridiculous now. “I made dinner. If … if you wanted to–”

 _“Dinner?_ You–” Jon dragged a hand across his face, hissing through his teeth. “Do you have _any_ idea what you’d almost done? How could you be so _stupid?”_

Martin swallowed, horror and shame welling up behind his eyes. Jon was right. There was no telling what Martin could have done, left to his own devices. He could have ruined the file with his greasy fingers, ripped the delicate paper, _anything_. He’d already gone and carelessly dropped one on the ground.

Of course Jon didn’t want him here.

Of course Jon didn’t want …

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You’re right. I just … I just thought …”

For a brief moment, the ice in Jon’s eyes cracked, mouth going slack. Martin looked away– he couldn’t bear any more of Jon’s anger. He turned back down the hallway, leaving Jon to his solitude. The only thing he'd asked for since Martin first bumbled his way across the manor's threshold. Martin should have given that to him from the start– no more delusions.

At least his eyes hadn’t betrayed him, he thought, as he reached up to scrub them. He’d spared Jon that.

He reached the library, and the hallway behind him remained quiet.

Once he returned to the kitchen, he sealed the stew and placed it in the icebox. It’d keep, in case Jon changed his mind. Martin, for his part, had lost his appetite.

Organising the used dishes, he turned on the sink and waited for the running water to warm over his fingers. Amazing that the pipes hadn't frozen, yet. With a lathered dishcloth, he scrubbed the pot and utensils until they shined– until it was impossible to tell Martin had cooked with them at all.

Funny how he always ended up back here. Washing dishes and feeling foolish.

By the time he’d dried and put away the last of the utensils, the sun had fallen away, replaced by gloomy, obscured moonlight pouring through the windows.

Oh. He hadn’t realised how late it had gotten. When Jon discovered that Martin had broken the one rule he’d set out for him …

Martin chuckled sadly.

Well, he could only be so cross with him, couldn’t he? If there was one thing to come out of this afternoon, it was that things couldn’t get much worse between them from here. There was only so much Martin could do to mess things up.

Still, he’d best make his way back to bed. No use tempting fate.

Plucking a wax candle and sconce from one of the drawers, he lit the wick with fire from the oven before stepping into the hallway. Darkness hugged the edge of his small circle of candlelight. A safe harbour in the endless black void. He could barely make out the path in front of him; no matter how hard he squinted or gave his eyes time to adjust, it didn’t clear. He'd have to rely on memory to get back to his rooms.

Wait. This _was_ the right path, wasn’t it? He turned around, but the darkness remained absolute. Pressing down on him. Martin swallowed back a flicker of panic.

The manor felt ... _different_ at night. Jon had once described it as a mausoleum, and Martin was beginning to see why. This must be how a corpse felt, trapped in its coffin– an unyielding force reaching in, crushing him from all sides.

He'd never find his way back like this. The layout of the manor was too confusing, too maze-like, even during the day. He'd wander the hallways forever if given the chance. But he couldn't just _stand_ here.

He kept walking, heels clicking against the marble floors, echoing through the corridors. His own harsh breath whispered back to him, familiar and strange at the same time; he had to fight the urge to turn around. He already knew no one would be there, and yet …

Maybe walking with no direction wasn’t the best idea, either. But then that left him with nothing.

A sound pricked his ears– and he was _sure_ it didn’t belong to him.

He whirled, heart pounding. There, at the absolute edge of the candlelight– a shape. A shadow. The sound came again, a bit more clearly: a whimper. A muffled sob.

Martin's hackles lowered, heart seizing with reflexive pity. Whatever it was, it sounded like it was in pain. This _had_ to be Jon’s guard dog. Was it hurt? How could Martin help? Or would he just make things worse, startle the poor thing into a panic? He couldn’t just _leave_ it, though.

He stepped forward, one arm lifted, and stopped.

Was it … _moving?_ It was. But, no, that didn’t _look_ right. Dogs didn’t move like that. They didn’t crawl. Or … _slither?_ He squinted, trying to see more clearly. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but–

The thing stepped forward, and Martin lurched back, slapping a hand over his mouth.

This had to be a dream. It had to. Because that _thing_ wasn’t a dog. It was …

Martin tried to put words to it, and something metallic welled in the back of his throat. The limb that stepped out of the shadow was tall and spindly, like the leg of a spider. Then he blinked, and it was the knobbly, creaking wooden arm of a puppet, pulled taut by an invisible string. And then it was an arm, shredded, oozing blood and pus and the wretched smell of sour meat.

A woozy fog crawled over the edges of Martin’s vision, the world swaying until it tilted to its side. The shadow crept further into the light, and it _towered_ over him. It hurt to stare, but he couldn’t turn away. Couldn’t move, couldn’t _run._ It pulsated and morphed, malicious, vile energy seeping off its skin in waves, and Martin still _could not_ _run._

Its face came into the light. A wolf, saliva and blood dripping from too many rows of sharp teeth. A melting face of wax. A corpse riddled with maggots, rot, and slime. Eyes. Its entire body slit with _eyes._ It was everything all at once, and nothing at all.

Copper hit Martin’s tongue. His nose had started to bleed. Robotic, he lifted a hand to wipe it away, smearing it across his cheek.

It locked eyes on him. Its many, _many_ eyes. And stepped forward again. Delicate, yet Martin's teeth rattled. 

A limb, pale with death, reached for him, the scent of rot growing stronger until Martin could pass out from it. He wished he would. In Martin's hand, the sconce shook, searing candle wax onto his hand, but he didn't lose his grip.

Its fingers crackled and popped as they touched his face, just under his eye. Martin gasped, inhaling fetid breath. The face didn’t shift or change– just stared down at him, matted hair framing its corpse-like flesh, blood streaming from its brown eyes.

Oh, he thought, dizzy with pain. That was sort of funny, wasn’t it? He’d expected a monster to have a more unusual eye colour.

Martin blinked. Wait.

 _Those eyes_.

“... Jon?”

The creature froze. At the edge of his vision, he could sense the impossible shifting and squirming, but his gaze remained locked on the constant of that face. Those _eyes._

Something like hope and horror sparked in Martin’s chest. He reached out a hand.

“ _Jon–_ ”

The creature flinched back, sending a burst of pain slicing through Martin’s cheek, and it vanished back into the darkness. Legs twinging, Martin brought a hand to the wound, smearing blood over his neck and jaw, inhaling wheezing breaths. The room began to right itself, that metallic taste in his throat ebbing, but his body was untethered.

The sconce clattered to the ground. Everything slipped away.

Cold marble pressed into Martin’s cheek, and when he lifted his head, a sharp pain shot through his neck. He grimaced. Why was he out of bed, much less on the _floor?_ And why did he have such a painful headache?

Who was crying?

He opened his eyes in gradual increments and squeezed them shut again at the muddled sunlight. The hallways of the manor stood over him, familiar and safe in the morning light, but a trace of anxiety shot through him at the sight. A dream. Yes, he'd had an awful, _awful_ dream, unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Perhaps he had sleepwalked, and that was why he was outside his room? He'd done that before as a child. But why did it feel like …?

 _Jon_.

Martin bolted upright. Jon was here, right in front of him– on his knees, face buried in his hands as his body shuddered with the most horrible, guttural, heart-wrenching _sobs._

“Jon?”

Jon looked up, and Martin flinched back. Jon’s wild hair fell around him in chaotic tangles, framing his sunken face, caved with grief and despair. Tear tracks and bloody gouges marred his cheeks. His eyes …

 _Eyes_.

“You’re …” Jon tried, voice a cracked, hollow whisper. “I thought you were …”

It all came back. His dream– _not a dream_. He touched his face and hissed as white-hot fire lanced through it. His cheek had been sliced open.

Another strangled gasp from Jon, who pressed a hand over his mouth. With his other hand, he reached for Martin– and then tore it back, pressing it to his chest. “I’m sorry.” He curled up impossibly tighter. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

His shoulders shook, teeth cutting into his bottom lip, muffling himself. Slowly, Martin lifted a hand. Touched Jon’s shoulder. Jon startled badly, flinching back.

“It’s okay, Jon. I’m okay.”

Jon stared at him, lips parted. He didn’t shake off Martin’s hand, though– he didn’t seem capable of moving at all.

He drew in a breath. And another.

And he completely broke down, his desperate, broken noises filling the expanse of the hall.

What did Martin do? His presence might just be making things worse. He started to pull away, but Jon only sagged into him; he would’ve fallen to the floor if it hadn’t been for Martin. Instinctively, Martin threw out his other hand to brace him, hold him upright, but Jon was beyond that now, _sobbing_ those terrible, gutting sounds.

Martin gave in and held Jon, awkward and bracing. Jon didn't seem to care, barely cognizant of Martin at all. Martin didn't mind, though. At least he could be a touch useful like this, even if only as a pillar.

Locked in their little embrace, they didn’t move for a very, very long time.

Martin waited until Jon's cries dulled to quiet choked-off breaths.

Then– 

"John the dog, huh?"

Jon stiffened and snapped his head up from the cushion of Martin's arm. Martin braced himself– was that a little too soon? But Jon sucked in a startled hiccup of a laugh. Almost a giggle.

“I apologise. My lie was admittedly not as creative as it could’ve been. Sasha always said I was rotten at it, anyway. Haven’t had much opportunity to practice, since.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long has it been since you … had the opportunity to practice? Since someone else was here?”

“It's ... hard to be certain. Your sense of time becomes a bit unreliable when you …” He sniffled, fingers toying with the seam of his cloak. “… Four years? Perhaps? It can’t have been more than six, anyway.”

 _Four years_. Four years of empty corridors and nothing but your own breath for company. Martin would have _died._

“It’s not so bad.”

 _“Not so bad?_ ” Martin said, wincing at his own volume. “Jon, that’s _awful_.”

“I don’t think so. Not really. It’s … I’m … safe, here. Everyone’s safe with me here.”

Safe? From … from _that …?_ “I think I’d _really_ appreciate an explanation right about now.”

“Yes. Yes, I think that’s fair.”

When Martin stood, his legs buckled beneath him, jelly-like and numb. Jon didn’t fare much better, nearly crumbling when Martin helped pull him to his feet. At least the red, swollen puffiness from his tears was beginning to ease.

“You should follow me,” Jon said. “It … might make more sense if I show you something.”

“Wait, what about–” Martin reached for the gouges in Jon’s face, but he pulled away.

“I’m fine. This way, please.”

Martin lowered his hand. Much as he’d rather see Jon’s injuries treated, he wasn’t going to pretend like he knew what the right thing to do was. He could guess where Jon was taking him, at least.

Jon took the lead, pulling open the door to the archives. The long hallway inside was just as musty and ominous as when Martin had entered it yesterday. Jon’s grim countenance only made him that much more apprehensive.

"I couldn't have been more than twenty-four when I first arrived at the manor," Jon started, his voice swallowed by the empty air. "I’d only just returned from Oxford when I discovered a vacancy for a research position in my field of interest. I worked alongside several others, although for the most part, I kept to myself. We worked for a man named Elias Bouchard, the proprietor of the Magnus estate."

They approached the bookshelves again, Jon reaching up for a file. His lips twisted.

“Then the previous Head Archivist passed away, and Elias gave me her position. I was to organise the archives and take the statements of those who came to us with their experiences.”

Jon handed him the file, which Martin recognised– it was the one from yesterday; with the man and his wife.

Jon pressed a finger to his lips. “Be careful.”

Martin tilted his head in confusion before remembering what had happened yesterday. Pressing a hand over his mouth, he flipped through the pages. He could feel it this time– the odd compulsion to speak out loud. But he resisted.

He read the story of William Richards. Of the night his wife had discovered something in the forest, and how it had followed her back home. How she’d tried to tell him, but he couldn’t see it and had dismissed her ramblings. And then she was gone. The clergyman found her washed up in the river. How, one night, something appeared in his room. Something dark. Something _hungry._

And then the sun came up, and the story was over.

At the far bottom of the page, written in messy scribbling,

_It's hard to say for certain which of the powers is responsible for this. Could be the Hunt, although there are trace suggestions of the Dark or the Stranger. At least Mr. Richards seems to be making a recovery, according to Tim. He's taken refuge at his mother's house in the meantime, although according to her, he's taken to midnight wanderings along the river path. He'd best be bringing a torch with him; the nights are only getting darker._

_Statement transcribed by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of Magnus Manor._

Martin traced the elaborate loop of the J. So familiar, and yet from so long ago. The Jon who had written this must have been an entirely different person. “What was it you were researching?”

"I suppose you could say the paranormal, although that term is broader than I'd consider useful. That's what initially drew me to this position, anyway."

Yesterday, Martin might have laughed, or at least held back a twitching smile as he waited for Jon to chuckle and explain the joke. But he’d yet to forget the smell of rot. The drip of melting wax touching his face. “The paranormal? Like ghosts?”

“Not quite.” Taking back the file from Martin, Jon’s eyes flitted across the parchment. They were still puffy and swollen, but the gouge marks had faded to a light, week-old scab.

How …?

“Do you believe in demons, Martin?”

“Demons? You mean like, what, heaven and hell and stuff? God?”

“Somewhat.”

Jon wasn’t _trying_ to be vague on purpose, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. Martin didn’t give much thought to that sort of high minded stuff, anyway. Mum had taken him to church as a child, sure, but he’d hated it. Never could pay any attention. “I mean, I guess? Why? Unless– are you saying that last night …?”

“Yes. My fellow researchers and I would find people who had encounters with these powers, these … entities, and take their statements. People they’ve preyed on. Fear. _That_ was the nature of our research. _”_

“Okay, look, just– _wait._ Are you trying to tell me that, that _thing_ from last night was a _demon?_ A fear demon?”

“Not quite so biblical. These entities– they feast on our deepest fears, our most intimate anxieties. _Everything;_ from something as primal as the fear of the dark, or of violence, or something as amorphous as our fear of the unknown. Of being forgotten.”

Martin reeled, but Jon barely seemed to notice, gaze straying back to the files.

“Someone divided them up. Put a name to them. Fourteen, he’d decided, although they frequently blur into each other.” Jon’s teeth bit into the badly chewed flesh of his lip. “So, _so_ many of our cases led nowhere, but the ones that didn’t …”

A shiver ran up Jon’s legs, and he braced himself against the shelves. Martin reached out a hand, but Jon shied away, his eyes fixed on some distant, unseen point.

“It was a trap,” Jon said to the parchment. “All of it. Right from the start. Being made Head Archivist, the secrets I uncovered, the monsters I met. Elias, he was a pawn for one of them– the _Eye._ ”

Martin thought about what he’d seen last night. The shapes, pulsating, writhing. And Jon. The pain in his face. “What did he do to you?”

“He ... had me marked. There was a ritual, and it required being touched by each of the entities in turn. Hurt by them, in ... whatever capacity. Physical, mental …” He traced the horrid burn scar on his hand. “All so they could eventually use me as their doorway, and come into our world.”

He lowered his head, pressing a hand to his face.

“I should have _seen_ it,” he whispered. “There were so many times I could have stopped. Where I should have figured it out. Without me, Elias’ plan would never have come to fruition. But I was too bloody curious.”

“It’s not your fault,” Martin said, too quickly.

“How would you know that?”

“I know _you._ I mean, I think I know you well enough that you wouldn’t unleash a gaggle of fear monsters on the world. Well, the world’s still in order, last I checked, so I guess this Elias’ ritual didn’t work. So what happened? Why do you become … _that?”_

Jon was silent. He brought a hand to the clasp of his cloak, running a thumb over the pattern. No sound permeated the archives; Martin hadn’t thought he’d ever miss the bluster of wind against the windows.

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “I’ve agonised over it for years, but I couldn’t tell you what went wrong with the ritual. Something was missing. It’s … it’s almost like they got stuck in the door on the way out. And now they’re all trapped in here with me.”

 _Trapped._ Good God, all this time Martin had been complaining about his own situation– employed in a castle with warm beds; safe, secure; despairing that his childish infatuation wasn’t reciprocated– and meanwhile Jon was _here. Alone._ Trapped in a nightmare that repeated itself _every single night._ “Why didn’t you ever _leave?_ Find someone who could help?”

“And risk getting someone _killed?_ Unleashing this _monstrosity_ on the world? You saw it. You saw what I am.” He pulled away, wrapping his arms around his chest. “It's better that I stay here. There’s no one left for me to turn to, anyway. Not anymore.”

Yes, of course. Tim and Sasha; dead. The owner of this estate, this _Elias;_ an evil man, who’d only brought harm. How awful ... even Martin had his mother.

“I’m sorry. I wish there was something …”

“Your platitudes are unnecessary. I’ve accepted things for what they are. I don’t need your pity.”

Martin didn’t want to give him pity. He wanted to press a damp cloth to Jon’s eyes until the swollen puffiness went down. He wanted to take Jon’s pain and put it on his own shoulders. Let Jon sleep through the night.

Jon collected his torch. “We should leave. I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere else, regardless.”

Yes, Martin thought as Jon led him out of the archives. Good riddance. He didn’t want to ever visit this awful room again. To think such a place existed, shelves stacked high with the accounts of people’s worst nightmares, their terror seeping through the old, stale air.

As they reentered the library, Jon turned back to him. “I’m sure this has all come as a bit of a shock. You should return to your rooms and rest. The salve I provided for your hands should help with your ...”

Jon trailed off, eyes lingering on Martin’s cheek. “Thanks. I’d offer you some, but, you know …” Martin touched his own face, the same area where Jon’s wounds had completely healed.

“There are, admittedly, a few benefits to the situation I find myself in.”

“Does it still hurt when you …?”

“... Yes.”

Martin stood there, torn. Settling down for a nap now almost guaranteed a horrible nightmare– besides, he wasn’t particularly interested in leaving Jon’s side. But he knew a dismissal when he heard one.

“Okay. You can stop by later if you want. If you'd like to talk some more.”

“Is that something you’d want?”

“Of course.” Jon’s eyes wavered toward the ground, and Martin had the funny feeling he hadn’t been believed. “You can talk to me.”

“You’re not afraid?”

“Of what? _You?”_

Jon’s eyes remained riveted to the floor. The sunlight, cold and dull from the storm, highlighted his face. Such a far cry from the warmth he’d seen before; Martin was beginning to forget what true sunlight looked like.

“No,” Martin said. “I’m not afraid of you, Jon.”

“... I see.”

Martin had said all he could say– with a jerkish nod, he walked back down the aisle. When he reached the end, a door clicked shut behind him, and he turned around. Jon was gone. The archival door stood silent and unassuming.

He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake. What if Jon retreated, and when they encountered each other again, his walls were higher, stronger, more insurmountable than ever? Martin would just have to trust that Jon would do what he knew was best for himself, and leave it at that.

He tried to keep busy, in the meantime. Read some books (though he barely processed them), ate some lunch (though he burned the flesh tomatoes), spent some time with Phillipa (he couldn’t be sure, but she seemed rather bored of his company). He could only stall so long, though, before he returned to his room.

In the washroom, he washed the dried, flaky blood off his face, applied the cream to the wound, and laid down in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He should’ve had a breakdown by now. He was certainly entitled to one. _Fear demons_ , not exactly a revelation one experienced over morning tea– but, honestly, he could hardly recall it at this point. He remembered the _fear,_ of course, like a nightmare, where one knew it had happened but the details slipped away the more you reached for them. A blessing, really. Mostly, all he could recall with any clarity was Jon’s eyes. The desperation and agony when Martin had said his name.

Martin didn’t want to see that look in Jon’s eyes ever again. But what could he even do …?

A knock. The door creaked open, and Martin shot upright as Jon peeked inside.

“May I come in?” In his hands were two cups of steaming tea. “My apologies. I-I wasn’t sure if your offer had expired.”

“No! No, not at all.” Martin scrambled to make room on the bed, patting the spot next to him. “Please, um, come in.”

Jon took the offered seat and handed Martin a cup.

“Thanks,” Martin said.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you.” Jon lifted his own cup, blowing on it gently. “Thank you. For your offer.”

Jon said it as if it were some great effort on Martin's part, and Martin could have laughed. As if the two of them talking wasn’t the one thing Martin had been desperately craving for the last two weeks.

Martin waited for his tea to cool, taking small, intermittent sips. Jon brought his cup to his lips once before slowly lowering it back to his lap. He traced the edge with his thumb, staring into the dark liquid.

“I thought you were dead,” Jon said at last. “This morning, I … I thought I’d killed you last night.”

Something burned in the back of Martin’s eyes. It was funny, in a way. Before now, Martin couldn’t have said with any confidence whether someone in his life would cry over his death. Even Mum– stiff upper lip and all that. Jon’s reaction was probably more out of guilt than anything, but that was what made it so funny. At least he knew now that someone, somewhere, would have cried that hard for him.

Jon clutched his cup tighter.

“Do you know the worst part of it?” he whispered. “I could have killed you. I could have _killed you_ , and the last thing I would have ever said to you was calling you _stupid._ All because you made me dinner.” Jon’s other hand curled into a fist, squeezing so hard Martin worried he might cut his palm. “Isn’t that abhorrent?”

“It’s okay. I’m fine, right? And I shouldn’t have been in there anyway–”

“That doesn’t _matter–”_ Jon snapped. Paused. “You’ve been nothing but kind and gracious to me, and I’ve been treating you appallingly. I had no right to do any of what I did.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I shouldn’t have pushed so much.” But Jon’s hands weren’t loosening. “Those archives are dangerous, aren’t they? You don’t have to be so hard on yourself– you were just trying to protect me.”

“Yes …” Jon murmured. “Yes, they are dangerous. But I’m afraid I was acting with far more selfishness than you’re implying. At the very least, I owed you an explanation, but the truth is; I’m a coward. I didn’t realise how I was making you suffer. How lonely you must have been feeling. I’m sorry.”

 _Suffer._ That was a little overdramatic, wasn’t it? But, as Martin took another sip, he found he didn’t have it in himself to protest. “I thought you were angry with me,” he admitted. “I was trying to figure out what I’d done wrong, but …”

“I was never angry with you. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Then, his lips morphed into a light smirk. “Perhaps I would have preferred you’d stayed in your rooms last night.”

“Sorry. Lost track of the time cleaning up the kitchens.”

Jon turned away, hiding his expression. “I see.”

They drank in silence. Martin tried not to drink his tea too quickly, lest he bring the conversation to a close, make Jon feel like he needed to leave. By the time he had drunk half of his cup, his tea had gone ice cold. It actually tasted pretty decent like this.

“You’ve been touched by one of them, you know,” Jon said. “One of the entities. You’ve been marked.”

Martin sucked down his cold tea a little too fast. _“What?”_

“Do you remember? That day with the fog? I’m sure you guessed that wasn’t a natural occurrence. Autumn’s only just started, after all. I went out to investigate and … there you were, wandering through the Forsaken. The Lonely.”

 _The fog._ He _knew_ it hadn’t been natural. The memory of its creeping chill, the gradual sense of getting lost, crawled along his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. _The Lonely_. What a frighteningly apt name.

This storm … he’d brought this storm upon them, too, hadn’t he? Just like he had with the fog. He’d brought this, this _Lonely_ down on their heads the moment he’d crossed the manor’s threshold, and now they were trapped.

But at least they were here together, now, in one piece. At least Jon trusted Martin enough to unburden himself. At least they were talking again.

Jon drained the last of his tea, resting his cup on the end table. “I’d like to thank you again,” he said. “It’s nice having someone to talk to.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to make that offer. My colleagues said I had a nasty habit of talking their ears off if they weren’t firm with me.”

“I don’t mind.” Scepticism seeped from Jon's pores. “I _really_ don’t mind. Look, Jon … I can’t pretend to understand any of what you’ve gone through. I’ve been here for, what, two weeks? And I was about ready to lose my mind, and at least I had _you_ , even if we weren’t talking. Being all alone …? All I’m saying is I can be here for you, okay? If you want someone to talk to … if you want a friend– I can be that for you.”

Jon’s eyes dropped to Martin’s cheek. Martin swallowed – the cut still burned – but he didn’t look away. Jon broke his gaze first.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I deserve that. Your friendship. After everything I’ve done since…”

“Of course you do. Listen to yourself; it’s not like you _wanted_ to frighten me.” An inch of space sat between their hands. “Is this …? Um. Is this okay …?”

The winds continued to howl, and Martin's hand lay limp on the bed sheets. His face grew hot, and he started pulling back. Stupid idea. But then Jon slid his hand closer until their fingers brushed. Emboldened, Martin wrapped his hand around Jon's, his burn scar grazing the soft skin of Martin's palm.

He squeezed gently.

“No one deserves to be lonely, Jon.”

Jon had no response, staring out to the storm that continued knocking on their windows. He stared, and he let Martin hold his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For updates and sneak peeks of future chapters, follow me on tumblr [@athina-blaine](https://athina-blaine.tumblr.com/)!


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